


How Beautiful and Free

by S_Winter_Fitzgerald



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, Character Study, Côte d'Azur, Multi, Original Character(s), Post-Finale, french riviera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 78,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8265565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Winter_Fitzgerald/pseuds/S_Winter_Fitzgerald
Summary: After returning her father to London, Miss Fisher meets some friends on the Côte d’Azur. But what was supposed to be a relaxing time turns into a murder investigation and, as if that wasn’t enough, there’s also much to think about regarding Australia. Like Jack, for instance.





	1. Chapter 1

**" _What an age of innocence it was, and how beautiful and free"_**

_Gerald Murphy in a letter to Archibald Macleish_

 

**" _Hugh Collins: Miss Fisher has gone on holiday again, sir._**

**_Jack Robinson: Ah… anyone dead yet?_ **

**_Hugh Collins: Only one so far, sir."_ **

_Death Under The Mistletoe, 2x13, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries_

 

 

 

**I**

Being still didn't come easily to Phryne but, maybe because she had moved around so much over the past weeks, she deeply appreciated the comfort of sitting on that wicker chaise.

She had even fallen asleep, she gathered when she opened her eyes and saw no one around her but could hear the sound of voices coming from further down and noticed that the book she had once held was now on the floor.

Breathing in the pleasant breeze, scented with a mixture of sea salt with the lavender, thyme, and rosemary in the kitchen garden, and the roses and jasmine around the house, she sat back in the plush beige pillows for a moment and arranged the strap of her swimsuit before getting up and approaching the balustrade facing the Mediterranean.

Turquoise waves slithered forward and back through the gaps between the rocks below. Nature had polished the basalt blocks so diligently over the centuries, men had had to employ little effort to turn them into sundecks and diving boards, now used by the home owners and their guests.

In that moment, people were picking up their belongings to come back to the house. After some hours laying in the sun, most of their skins had reddened or tanned since she had last seen them.

Nola paused folding a towel and waved at her, smiling from under the brim of her elegant black straw hat.

Phryne smiled and waved back. She had missed her friend while in Melbourne, so it was likely she would have said yes to any invitation Nola might have made, even if it didn't include some weeks away from London (and her newly reunited parents) at a mansion in the French Riviera.

They had met at Roedean, to where Nola's father had sent her despite its affiliation with the Church of England to give her not only the type of education he hadn't been able to get as the son of an Irish immigrant, but also something that would fill her mind and make her stand out from the array of American heiresses of tremendous fortunes made through everyday common items, hosiery and knitted goods in their case. Nevertheless, his intentions had been somewhat thwarted by their meeting. Phryne and Nola were smart and their brightness showed in class, which had helped them get along at first, but they had also bonded over a common tendency for mischief, and strengthened their friendship even more when they were reunited in Paris after the war, in the wake of intermittent meetings.

Some people derided Miss Murrow as an idle socialite from Allentown, Pennsylvania who did little less than shuttling between America and Europe for parties and shopping but she was the one straightening Elliott enough so he would get his act together and write and publish short-stories and books with a consistency he probably wouldn't be able to manage by himself otherwise. Even if she did take great pleasure in being part of the smart artistic sets in New York, London or Paris and in attending readings, exhibitions, plays, and dinners, she also didn't mind standing in the shadows editing his manuscripts.

Elliott himself had his back turned to Miss Fisher but upon seeing his younger sister's gesture, he rotated and greeted Phryne, serpentine smoke rising from the cigarette in his mouth and which almost fell off his lips when he smiled.

Phryne waved towards him as well and decided to wait from them to come up. Dinner wasn't very far away; even if that party had been together for nearly two weeks, visitors weren't expected and a casual ambiance seemed to rule the house, it didn't make it less of an affair.

Perhaps because night-time was her favourite time of the day, she had always liked the transition from afternoon to evening, particularly when she got to live it in such a breath-taking scenario: the sea spilt in front of her was impressive, but it was difficult to overlook the luxuriating indigenous stone pine woods and other thick vegetation in which the house was nested and that harboured flocks of chaffinches which scored the inception of twilight so perfectly as they settled for the night.

The place she was standing on was different from what it had once been, but Phryne could still see why Una and William had felt so drawn to the ruins they had found during one summery afternoon of 1923 while driving around after deciding to see where a cracked and fainted road sign reading 'Chateau Ondine' would lead. They had loved its location and charm tremendously and had gone through a great deal of trouble and expense to locate its owners (a task complicated by a sequence of heirs killed in the war), buy it, and refurbish it thoroughly for two years, staying at the Hotel Du Cap as they supervised the works during the Summer and when they came down from Paris once a month, convincing the owner to open it especially for those occasions. Yet, for the slight remembrance of such structure, chiefly in the round tower at one end where the hall and the round staircase were located and the two large fireplaces that were rarely lit because the weather didn't call for it that often, there wasn't much of the original chateau left except for the name. Yet, it had felt like such part of the identity and the myth of the house, the Montgomerys had chosen to keep it nevertheless. Now it was a mostly rectangular beige stone building with large windows, shutters painted in light seafoam green, and fitted with iron balconettes on the second floor. At ground level, two French doors led to the terrace and a string of celling-high sash windows overlooked the well-kept garden ahead, the pool on the left, and, beyond all, a sea so intensely blue it seemed like painted glass instead of the actual landscape.

Sometimes, in these hours, Phryne found herself missing St. Kilda and, more acutely, all the people she had left behind, but it didn't prevent her from looking forward to cocktails and dinner and maybe even a trip to the nearby Casino or to Cannes', about half an hour away.

Nola headed the procession coming up the wooden stairs from the rocks, apparently not really caring if people were lagging behind her now, even if she had patiently waited for them before.

«Hello there», she said to Phryne when she got to the top step. «The water was absolutely swell, but I hope you don't mind I didn't wake you. You were sleeping so peacefully everyone agreed it would be a crime to disturb you», she continued with a theatrical shrug that shook her cobalt beach pyjamas and a playful glint in her eyes. Considering Nola's pale skin, dark brown hair, and light eyes, they could almost pass as cousins at least, if not sisters.

«Fear not, dear friend. You shall be forgiven this time», replied Phryne, with a smile, taking off her sunglasses. «I can't promise to be this magnanimous in the next occasion though».

However, she had to acknowledge she regretted not having joined them as soon as she had woken up. As self-indulgent as she liked to be sometimes, Phryne didn't have the patience to lay in the sun and preferred to keep herself under one of the large parasols by the pool but she loved to sea bathe, to feel invigorated by the water on her muscles and transported to a different world when she dipped her head.

«Have you gotten mellow in Australia?» said a deep baritone man's voice coming from behind them.

«Never», Phryne said, turning around.

«What a comfort knowing it hasn't changed. I don't think I could endure living in a world where Phryne Fisher went by the rules.»

«That's quite a compliment. No wonder people shower you in praise», Phryne said, raising her eyes. Elliott was tall and rather fit. She had seen him swim nearly every day in the Mediterranean since she had arrived in the Riviera and wondered if he still went at least once a week to the Piscine Chateau Landon when in Paris or, when in New York, to the pool in the basement of the Woolworth Building, courtesy of a university friend who worked there. He also practiced calisthenics ('the only good thing to come out of being in the army', as he said) every morning; when he wasn't too hung over to do so, that was.

With some wet strands of his dark hair failing onto his forehead and a towel slung across his shoulders, he looked somewhat boyish despite his hardened features, an impression deepened by the contrast between his green eyes and his tanned skin.

«Come on, children, don't spar», Nola said. «And it's not fair – I stand in the sun for two minutes and I look like a shrimp. This man ends up looking like a photogenic local. You're my own brother, damn it!», she added after a small pause, looking at Elliott and shaking her head. «And shouldn't you put some cream on that?», she said caringly, pointing at his nose.

« It does hurt a little», he acknowledged, «so, ladies, if you don't mind...», Elliott said, with a slight bow of his head and the raise of his cigarette case, before heading inside and walking away until he was little less than a 'T' rendered in white and blue in the distance.

«Don't you get tired of mothering him?», Phryne asked her friend, half-mockingly, half-seriously.

«Eh, sometimes», she replied, but both knew that things weren't that simple.

«Family?», said Phryne as they climbed the three steps of the large stone terrace and made their way into the house as well.

«I think my father likes to say 'my son, the acclaimed novelist, Elliott Murrow', but there's work and there's _work,_ if you get what I mean, particularly when my grandfather seems very keen on frequently reminding us all that he still hasn't seen any result of all the money put into Yale. I honestly don't know why everyone is so surprised since Elliott has always said he wanted to be a writer», Nola said with a shrug as she removed her hat once they reached the sitting room.

«Your grandfather?», Phryne realised that it was an odd thing to say, but she didn't think he would still be alive.

«Haven't you heard? He'll be the first person to be 1 million years old.»

«I'm sorry to know. About the strained relationship, I mean», offered Phryne, the similarities to her own situation not far away from her mind. «How about you?»

«I don't care about it, to be honest. They have their lives, we have ours. It's awkward if we meet for Christmas but that's it. I could have a university-oriented education but I'm obviously failing nowadays by not getting a husband and a ranch of children. But if failing mean living in Paris and meeting exciting people, that I'm planning on failing for as long as I can and I couldn't be any happier».

«It sounds like the most wonderful plan and I couldn't endorse it more even if I wanted to.»

Nola smiled and Phryne followed her example, but she pondered on how much her friend seemed to leave out of her letters, even if this realisation wasn't something completely unexpected. They trusted each other but their confidences tended to come out in bursts like that instead of through conversations when they caught up on everything they had done ever since they had last seen each other.

«We better go change though. Una does take dinnertime very seriously», said Nola back in her regular tone of voice.

«Yes, it's best, but you know you can count on me, don't you?», Phryne said, putting one hand on Nola's arm.

« I do», she replied with a nod, and covering Phryne's hand with hers. «And you know it's a two way street, right?»

**xxx**

Phryne's room was spacious and light, and facing the woods instead of the sea didn't make it less comfortable or charming.

It was painted in white and its stone floor was mostly covered by a large Persian Tabriz rug featuring interlacing bands in tan and beige tones. Three silk panels with motifs in red, yellow, green, white, and blue adorned the wall behind the bed. They reminded Phryne of the Leon Bakst's illustrations she had once seen depicting the costumes for the Bacchantes in the 'Narcisse' production put on the stage by the Ballet Russes: an alluring combination of floral and swirling patterns in bold colours that she would bet had appealed to Una exactly for that, given that she was a former dancer and had taken part in the work developed by Diaghilev and his collaborators.

Maybe as a counterpoint to all the colour, the bed had a beech wood frame of simple lines and minimal treatment and was fitted with white linens that were as extremely appealing and comfortable as they looked. A small light blue chaise had been placed in front of it and two matching tables stood on each side of the bed with spherical frosted glass lamps on top of them. By the window, a desk with a rectangular easel-like mirror served as a vanity.

Phryne picked her own clothes out of the wardrobe frequently, but as she flicked through the satin-covered hangers showcasing her outfits, she always thought of Dot. Not only of the care with which she tended to Phryne's garments, ( the maid who did so at Chateau Ondine cleaned and mended them well, yet it would be difficult to not feel spoiled after Dot's fairy hands in these matters), but also of the warmth, attention, and friendship that emanated from her friend and companion.

She sometimes regretted not writing to her as often as she could. At first, Phryne had sent general, short telegrams updating her household about the progress of their trip: ' GOT TO KARACHI STOP TOO HOT STOP', 'VIENNA STOP NERVES WRECKED BY FATHER' but once the situation had become more or less settled, the last thing she had sent had been 'IN FRANCE WITH FRIENDS STOP FAMILY IN LONDON STOP EVERYTHING WELL STOP PHRYNE'. She hoped people knew her well enough by now to understand that she wasn't the kind of person to write long missives and that 'regular' mail would take so long to get to Australia any news were bound to no longer be that pertinent. Yet, she also hoped that the fact that she had left everything set to keep the house running and the salaries paid for many months didn't make them feel that she had abandoned them somehow. Tomorrow she would say something more personal, Phryne decided, even if she was conscious of herself to not go as far as making promises.

Phryne turned her attention to the task at closest at hand.

Men would be wearing suits; ladies' attire was prone to subtleties that were supposed to be observed but that could be complicated to discern and apply. There was some level of familiarity among the members of their party, but that didn't mean throwing some odd simple thing and yet diamonds would be uncalled for.

She took out a sleeveless forest-green chiffon dress with a stylized floral print lace around the neckline and complemented it with pearl satin shoes and drop earrings with green-ish blue sapphires at their end. Nature and sophistication, she thought. That would do.

As she changed, did her hair, and put on her make-up, her gestures as organic as breathing, Phryne let her thoughts run free. She was glad she had met her mother about a year after they had last seen each other, although she had been worried by how she had found her. Money issues had taken some toll on her, but the situation with her husband seemed to have contributed even harder to the yellowish tint in her skin and the dark circles under her eyes. Phryne had made a point of bringing her father back and she had followed through with her resolution, but there were moments when she regretted having done it to avoid getting Margaret caught in that repetition once again. They might love each other, but Henry Fisher was as charming as he was manipulative and waltz or no waltz, her mother deserved much more than that.

On one night, as Henry was heavily asleep after a generous dose of his nerve tonic to cap a delicious meal of lamb medallions and cucumber salad, Phryne had called Margaret to her room and had had a frank conversation with her. That plane trip across the world had shown her that no matter how much Henry promised he had changed that hadn't exactly happened, as if could be seen by his reticence in gathering and delivering the documents the solicitor had asked for so they could proceed with the asset inventory and delineate a plan to save what they hadn't had to sell yet. They could get divorced; the title and most of the estate would still end up in his hands and he would probably run them to the ground, but Margaret had some money from her own family or if something like that was too much of a radical measure she wasn't ready to undertake, she could always move out of the Richmond House or even join her sister in Australia first. Aunt Prudence would be delighted to have her back home.

Margaret had thanked her daughter's concern, but she loved her husband, still did even after all those decades fully aware of his flaws, and would be by his side and get him in shape to sort out their financial woes. It might be difficult for Phryne to understand, but he was the love of her life and she wouldn't give up on him.

Phryne had been disappointed when she had heard this. Not exactly in her mother, there was little she could do if Margaret held on to her choice, but she was particularly disillusioned because she was nearly sure Henry would keep on going to the club and on reading the paper in the leather sofa in the library as he smoked his pipe while Margaret would invite the solicitor for tea and scour their houses and her jewellery box for things to sell if all her other efforts had been in vain and they didn't have any other chance.

Part of her had considered offering a loan, but she decided against it eventually. They were her parents and she was very sorry for what they were going through, but she hadn't moved to the other side of the world to get away from them just to return and tie money into an already complicated situation. As good as her intentions might be, it would simply add another very particular layer to such a messy context.

If she hadn't received Nola's invitation, she would have gotten out of London nevertheless, whether to the country or even Paris, even if she didn't know as many people there as she once had. In fact, only a couple of names popped into her head, but in the worst case scenario she would book herself a suite at the Ritz and stay there for as long as she wished, shopping, eating macarons, wandering around the museums, visiting the _bouquinistes_ that dotted the margins of the Seine during the day and the sizzling clubs at night.

She took a look at the clock on the nightstand. Dinner would be served in five minutes. Well, there were cocktails to be had before, but being punctual for them was as important as being punctual for the meal itself. Phryne put the finishing touch in her red lipstick and got out of the room.

She was used to having art around, whether the Romney depicting the first Baroness still hanging in the dining room of Richmond Park, her family's Sommerset country seat, the young woman painted by Ghirlandaio in the library, the Gainsborough landscape in the sitting room at their London house or even the collection she had gathered for herself over the last years, more in tune with her less conformist taste: Klimt, Seurat, Modigliani, Margaret Preston, Nina Hamnett or Thea Proctor. Yet, she was still in awe with the art on display at Chateau Ondine. It had been hard not to be when sketches, watercolours, oils, pastels, and gouaches covered the walls of the corridors, when distinct styles decorated the different rooms. Some were reminders of the many friends the Montgomerys had had over through the years, presents they cherished both for the fondness for the people that had made them but also for showcasing the great talent they were lucky to meet, some were the result of what they had been collecting over the years just because they liked them. Colourful and monochromatic works, realistic or abstract or surrealistic depictions all complementing each other in a harmonious display, infusing that house with the energetic creativity that had brought Una and William to France.

At first sight, the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling might seem incongruous with their surroundings, but, as strange as it might sound, it felt that the juxtaposition made sense. Phryne couldn't explain it more eloquently how or why modernist paintings fitted seamlessly with 18th century _contadores_ and streamlined centre tables and tapestries from various decades.

The circular staircase itself was adorned by a masterpiece by Pablo Picasso, painted during his stay at Chateau Ondine in 1925. The Montgomerys had met him in Montparnasse shortly after their arrival in France and they had become friends during their collaboration with the Ballet Russes. William also dabbled in painting and had volunteered to help restore the sets lost in a fire alongside Una and many of the artists that had congregated around the company. The steps were similar to the original stone ones that had once been there and the railing just a line of iron alongside the wall, but their simplicity served to highlight the mural even more.

About nine actual-sized figures were distributed through the space, in a ballet of surrealistic proportions, rendered mainly in pink, shades of blue ranging from indigo to cerulean to powder blue with touches of red, white, and brown, developed in front of windows illuminated by a moonlight rather similar to the one she'd find outside within some hours. A week had gone by since Phryne had arrived at Chateau Ondine, but she still tended to stand in front of it for long, moving up or down step by step in order to take in all the details and yet still moving on with something left to see the next time she walked by.

Dinner would be served in the terrace, as it had happened nearly every night. The weather was too good to be confined indoors.

Monsieur Duval (who acted as butler and footman and chauffeur if need be) had rolled out a cocktail cart and William was already behind it, re-organising the bottles and the utensils in the little table top.

A tall man, he had brown hair and an oval, amiable face. A patient listener and engaging conversationalist, William was usually well liked whenever he went. His small hazel eyes got even smaller when a warm smile took over his face upon the sight of Phryne.

«But for you, am I the first person to arrive? I feared I was already late», she said, approaching him after a quick glance at the table, set with a white tablecloth, white dishes, glasses so clear one could see the landscape beyond with only minimal disruption, cutlery so polished it seemed to gleam by itself, and silver candlesticks to illuminate the scene.

«Good evening», he greeted. «Fear not, Una went to the kitchen to have the entrée done and Elliott is somewhere out there drinking his cocktail. Speaking of… established or original?»

«I would never offend you by asking for something that had already been done», replied Phryne, her words making William smile again.

«If you like it, you get to name it», he said.

«Agreed.»

«Phryne!»

She turned to the woman who had called her.

Una moved graciously and making the least amount of noise possible, remains of her dancing career and consequence of her choreographer occupation probably. She was the kind of person who made everyone feel like a much cherished friend. Phryne had only met her twice, in Paris, at the Montgomerys' eccentric yet lovely apartment on the Left Bank after being brought there by Nola three years ago, but she had been received as warmly as if those meetings had taken place many times and this invitation hadn't stemmed from the fact that Miss Murrow was already at Chateau Ondine when Phryne had finally been able to locate her. Una liked to have people at her house and her kindness and good humour had left a mark on Phryne and had made her feel completely at ease, even if she wasn't the kind of woman who got timid very easily.

«I hope you like Niçoise Salad, Phryne. I thought it would be pleasant after this hot day», she said, her steps closely followed by Pavlov's, the ruby Cavalier King Charles Spaniel her husband had given her as a gift a year ago, named first after Anna Pavlova and then because of the pun, and who sat next to her once she stopped walking.

Her red hair was bobbed and wavy and her pale skin was dotted with freckles. The emerald-coloured dress she wore made these features stand out and picked up in the flecks of green in her grey eyes.

«It does seem like a lovely idea», replied Phryne, missing Dot and Mr Butler's cooking even if Madame Leblanc's was absolutely delicious and she had gladly been pursuing new recipes she asked Una to translate from the American magazines her mistress read.

«Your cocktails, ladies», said William, presenting them with glasses a kissing his wife's cheek.

«What's this?», Una asked, looking at the dark-red drink.

«Red Grapefruit juice, gin, yellow chartreuse, grenadine, and some secrets, but the name itself is up to our guest», said William.

«It looks good, to start with», admire Phryne, before raising the glass in their direction and taking a sip.

The sound of high heels on the stone steps drew her gaze before Phryne could pronounce her verdict.

«Bonsoir» was heard in an affected tone.

«Bonsoir», replied the Montgomerys and Miss Fisher at the same time.

With her honey hair styled in soft waves around her face and wearing an aquamarine dress with a scoop neckline and drop pearl earrings, she couldn't look more like the star that she was.

Joséphine D'Aramitz (if it were her real name, something Phryne pondered on considering how easily it rolled out of one's mouth and that one had to puck their lips in three kisses to say it) moved as if she were in a permanent stage, with languid but sure gestures. In theory, her eyes might seem too small and set apart, her nose too short, and her lips too full to look well together, but if the early evening light embraced the angles of her face like that, Phryne could only imagine how resplendent she would look on screen. She hadn't had the chance to see any of her films yet.

«Alphonse is changing into something more presentable».

She had been having English and diction classes so she wouldn't miss her spot in Hollywood because she didn't know the language, now that talking pictures were starting to get more popular. Her grammar was perfect and her accent had been moulded into something mysterious and sophisticated that made her words seem like they were part of a screenplay instead of the update of her boyfriend's whereabouts.

«He may take his time. Nola, Philip, and Caroline aren't here either», informed Una. «Would you like a cocktail?»

«Je l'aimerai beacoup», replied Joséphine with a faint smile, looking squarely at William. Despite her effort to speak English, she still peppered her speech with French.

«D'accord», he said, leaving to the cart. English had been tacitly adopted as the lingua franca at Chateau Ondine, especially because only two out of nine people were French, but it was difficult not to drop words in that language from now and then either.

Elliott came up from the direction of the wooden stairs that lead to the rocky beach, put the empty glass on the cart and signalled William to count him in for the next round.

«The sea is very calm tonight», he said, retrieving a golden case from inside his dinner jacket, opening it and turning it to the other people nearby, even if he knew who would pick a cigarette. Joséphine took one and put it in the small holder she got from her beaded purse, but no one else accepted his offer.

«It's looking very tempting, in fact, for a midnight swim», he continued, the orange flame coming from a silver lighter dangling in front of his features as he put it to Joséphine's cigarette and then to his.

«So, is there a name at last?», William asked, handing Elliott a gin rickey and presenting Joséphine with a cocktail like the one he had made for Phryne and Una.

«Midnight Swim sounds rather appealing, but I'm afraid I have to credit Elliott with the idea», Phryne said.

«If I weren't in such good mood, I might say it's unfair that he gets to name nearly all my cocktails», William said, applying a good-hearted tap on Elliott's back.

«I would feel honoured instead of offended if I were you. I taste many drinks in many places and yet I always come back to yours, even if they are nothing more than a colourful and alcoholic water sometimes».

William laughed, but Phryne noticed that it didn't happen as promptly as it usually did and that it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Elliott's clothes and hair showed no sign of disarray and he appeared rather clear-eyed in the early twilight glow, but she wondered how many gin rickeys by the water had he enjoyed already. She knew him well enough to be aware that he wouldn't be that cutting towards a friend unless he had been deeply offended or if alcohol had been involved.

«All this for me? You surely know how to make a woman feel appreciated», Nola said, coming down the stairs, even if she was followed by the two people they had been waiting for to start dinner.

Everybody laughed, easy again now that her words had pierced through the awkward silence that had suddenly risen in the wake of the brief but tense exchange between Elliott and William.

«Nothing but the best for our friends», Una said, resuming her duties as hostess . «But maybe we're honouring Phryne, the latest person to join us instead, Nola».

«I wouldn't mind sharing the honour», replied Nola.

She was wearing a brick-coloured dress that tied at the hip with a quality rhinestone clip and that swung around her ankles as she walked.

The couple walking behind Nola were dressed in a more sombre yet extremely sophisticated way, of course, even if, alongside Alphonse and Joséphine, they were younger than most members of the party.

He was in his mid-thirties and she was some years younger. Philip and Caroline Van Asten had the elegant bearing of those people confident in their place in the world and certain of the story conveyed in one's name, something that seemed to whiff off particularly from him. All men were well groomed, but he seemed to strive to be even more polished than them; his dark hair appeared to have been parted in the particular spot measured by a ruler, his bowtie was exactly centred with his nose, chin, and throat. His grey eyes hovered over people with a particular attention, as if he was trying to ascertain what had brought them there. Due to her light brown hair, slightly upturned nose and earnest brown eyes, Caroline could look rather dainty, but Phryne believed that something more was simmering under that dignified and collected veneer and she gave off a genuine warmth that went over her shyness. She was wearing a deep purple dress that while extremely becoming stood out from the rest by being rendered in a delicate lamé lace over a silk slip and a small capelet covered her shoulders.

William took up his task of not leaving any hand empty of a cocktail and quickly shuttled off a 'Midnight Swim' to Nola, a Kir Royal to Caroline, and a 'Sidecar' to Philip without asking any questions. His choices would not be contested; he knew the first wouldn't mind trying something new, the second had shared that it was her favourite cocktail, and the latter asked always for the same even if he didn't seem to particularly enjoy it. After all these years, it was still very strange for William to have a former stepson only fourteen years his junior. Given the tumultuous way their relationship had taken from the start and that all his efforts to bond with Philip seemed to have been met with reservations when he tried to go beyond small talk, he had abandoned any hope that they might be friends someday, including after Philip's mother had died, but he kept inviting him over out of politeness and the promise he had made to Adeline that he would treat her son well and Philip kept coming to France for some reason William couldn't figure out.

Crickets filled the air with their metallic sound as the party shaped itself into little groups. It felt somewhat inevitable, even if they all got along well enough. Nola, Phryne, and Elliott clustered near the balustrade. Una, Caroline, and Joséphine sat down in chairs pulled away from the table, chatting in English about the scripts that had come in the post that afternoon, while Philip and William exchanged vague news from America, two lines at the time as if it were some sort of odd game. Phryne wondered how they fed it since William received a batch of New York Times issues each month. Montgomery seemed to have ran out of platitudes though because after listening to Philip compare how many dollars and pounds were worth and how the current economic conjecture had forced some of his clients at the bank to sell significant assets, he said:

«How long will Alphonse need more? Someone could think that I had asked him to paint the whole house instead of a wall!»

Alphonse Pernot might not be a household name yet as the authors of many of the artworks that decorated Chateau Ondine, but William seemed to see in promise enough to commission a mural in the last vacant guest room. He had started the previous summer, paused during the following winter while everybody moved to Paris and he devoted himself to other pursuits in order to cement his reputation. Not many details were known about this work. Only William was allowed to see it and even those visits had to be set by Alphonse; He wanted it to be as much as a surprise as it could. Phryne thought he might be setting himself to disappointment even considering the Montgomerys' embrace of new styles and ideas, but artists were creatures of fickle egos and it wasn't exactly her place to say anything so she kept unexpectedly quiet.

William was taking a look at his wristwatch when the painter came down the stairs and joined them in the terrace.

«Je suis désolé pour mon retard. It seemed liked I couldn't put the brush down even if I knew I should», he said, in an English more accented than his girlfriend's.

He had short dark red hair that hadn't been combed with pomade but that was neater than how it usually looked during the day, when he left the wind ruffled it at will. He reminded Phryne of a Pre-Raphaelite painting if they had featured more men instead of an array of Ophelias, medieval themes, and mythical beings: a beautifully shaped face whose bones seemed delicate yet sharp, with salient cheekbones and a tight jawline. Somewhat feminine lips, more of a poet than a painters', and very light blue eyes.

No wonder Joséphine and Alphonse were such an item in a circle with so many iconic couples. They were successful and beautiful on their own, but together they also looked glamorous and rather mysterious, which was probably even better than the other two previous qualities. Keeping everyone guessing was quite an effective way to get eyes on them, people talking and their names on the right lips. Art, hedonism, and money were important but fame and – they were sure – immortality were even better.

«I appreciate the dedication, but if I paid you by the hour, I might be bankrupt by now and there would not be a wall to paint the mural on because I had had to sell the house», said William, jokingly. He had accompanied many painters over the years and had a little artistic experience himself, so he was fully aware that art could have the strangest schedules.

«I am sorry I made you wait», Alphonse said again, promptly sitting at the chair he took every night.

«Le diner peut commencer, M. Duval», Una told the butler in her French learnt at Miss Porter's School and polished over the past eight years.

Monsieur Duval, a slightly stout man in his mid-sixties with round features, light brown hair, and the warm manner of a welcoming grandfather, bowed his head slightly and went inside, reappearing soon with Mathilde as they served the hors d'oevres; devilled eggs, Crab Stuffed Mushrooms with Parmesan, and olive crostini preceded the Salade Niçoise that had been promised.

Above their easy and pleasant conversation, the sky was going from azure to a very particular grey-ish blue, cut by a sheaf of golden sunlight in the horizon and then to a deeper blue as light decreased and the night darkened, a change mirrored on the sea.

The people around the table seemed to have been caught by that spell and stopped talking for a while, contemplating the landscape. They lived fast and took pride in that, still tremendously aware of how lucky they were by having the chance to do so, but maybe that was also why they sat there watching the sunset, almost like a sort of worship ritual no one had decided upon but that had simply happened.

Personally, Phryne found painting sunsets and writing about them a bit cliché, but she could understand why some of the artists that had stayed there over the years had given in and committed them to canvas exhibited around the house.

«Any plans?», asked Nola after the dessert plates had been cleared without any trace of the lemon sorbet served left. The sensation of having all the time in the world could seem contradictorily stifling sometimes so no one spoke for a second.

«I would be up for some bridge, if anyone would like to join me», suggested Una, a proposition taken by Nola, Phryne, and Caroline.

«I will sit out this time and wait for the next game. After all, I ran everyone down to the ground three nights ago», Joséphine said in a genuinely playful tone and a smile bending her lips.

«How kind of you!», replied Nola in an equally light tone, good-heartily teasing her and with a smirk.

Joséphine laughed, completely unbothered by Nola's words, amused even, Phryne would say, which surprised her.

And so a table was brought outside and placed where the lanterns that illuminated the house would pour over it as well.

Phryne was enjoying a celebratory glass of champagne after having won the first round of bridge and talking with Caroline about the Royal Exhibition Building in Melbourne. Mrs Van Asten, Miss Besselink then, had visited Australia when she was 18, in a sort of World Grand Tour before her debut, and longed to be back someday and visit the country at her leisure, but it hadn't happened yet. Philip was always so busy and she wouldn't go by herself, not for now, at least, she said with an unexpected knowing smile.

For a while, William and Philip stayed at the dinner table smoking cigars and Elliott another cigarette, but maybe to avoid falling into the odd news game of before, the homeowner got up from his chair.

«I received my monthly shipment of American jazz records today. I think it may liven things up a little, even if it's not the same as having Fletcher Henderson and his band here with us. It will have to make do. »

An encouraging buzz rose from the bridge table, Elliott nodded while sipping the remaining whiskey in his glass, a puff of smoke came from Philip's seat and the gramophone was brought from the house with a parcel wrapped in brown paper with cord strings loosely tied around it carried on top of the dark case.

William served a round of Chartreuse as digestif and unpacked and set the records in a particular pile after choosing the order in which they would be played. They would have music enough to last through the night, fuelled by good conversation, company, and games, whether cards or even charades, able to enjoy themselves without the restraints of having neighbours they could disturb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is at last. *throws confetti* I am sorry it took nearly a year for this story to see the light of day even if it is adapted from a plot I wrote for class some years ago , but I hope you can forgive me and be apeased by the fact that I'm truly glad I can share it with you. After all, most writers do write for an audience and I have to confess I'm among this group and I couldn't ask for a better audience than the MFMM fandom.
> 
> Here goes the usual disclaimer about how I hope I haven't messed up historical details very much but if I did I hope it doesn't impair any possible enjoyment you may derive from this story. It was probably done out of ignorance so I am open to hear your feedback in case I destroyed something you're most knowleageable of than me.
> 
> There are some things I'd like to address though:
> 
> I tempered with MFMM's timeline so Phryne wouldn't arrive at the French Riviera too close to the Great Depression, as if it would have happened if she had left Melbourne on the beginning of September. This doesn't bring any significant changes to anything whether in the story or in canon as far as I can say, but I thought best to let you know.
> 
> I could have written a story which weaved Phryne's Riviera trip with famous people's whereabouts and some do come up, but I'm quite particular about getting things right and making sure everything lined up would have basically eaten up this story before it even existed because I'd be too obsessed with that. So I've loosely based some of my characters in real people, like Una and William Montgomery, who are inspired by Sara and Gerald Murphy. I'm probably preaching to the choir, but the Murphys were rich American expatriates who were a fixture in Paris' artistic social scene in the 20s and were connected to many artists from the time, like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Picasso, Jean Cocteau, Dorothy Parker, Archibald MacLeish, Cole Porter or Igor Stravinsky, for instance. They were crucial for the change in how the Riviera was experienced as a summer resort; before, it was only a fashionable wintering spot. The rich and famous preferred Deauville, for example, for the hot months. They did convince the Hotel du Cap to remain open during Summer in 1923, eventually purchased their own villa in Cap d'Antibes, Villa America, and introduced sunbathing on the beach and swimming as a fashionable thing to do. Nicole and Dick Diver in Tender Is The Night were loosely based on them first (on Scott himself and Zelda as the novel progressed then), which was kind of cruel from Fitzgerald towards such good friends as they were throughout his life though. I hope I've been kinder.
> 
> I find them very fascinating and have borrowed some details from their lives to Una and William's, namely their hospitality and friendships with artists and their time on the French Riviera, their collaboration in restoring deteriorated sets from the Ballets Russes - where they met Picasso -, the monthly shipments of American jazz records received in France, Gerald's cocktail skills as well. There are many articles and books written about the Murphys, but Calvin Thomkins' classic piece «Living Well is The Best Revenge» published on The New Yorker in 1962 and that you can find online is a good place to start, added by the fact that the Murphy's had lived through a lot since their times in the Riviera, including the death of two of their children. The quote I used for the epigraph is from a letter Gerald wrote in the 60s and mentioned how sometimes he and Sara went through their souveniers from the 20s and felt towards them in light of what had come after.
> 
> Elliott Murrow is loosely based on F. Scott Fitzgerald (surprising no one who read my profile) but Nola, Joséphine, Alphonse, Caroline, and Philip weren't inspired by no one in particular.
> 
> The mural on Chateau Ondine's staircase takes influence from Picasso's « Three Dancers», painted in 1925.
> 
> I have no idea if William's cocktail would be any good. I know next to nothing about them and the one described came after playing with randomcockatails dot com (writing it this way so ao3 won't be mad at me and erase this), but feel free to try it and let me know. Cheers!
> 
> Unlike Undercover at The Elvsworth Club, which was updated with no particular schedule and gaps between chapters because I was posting as I wrote, this story is fully written already. Given this, I'm planning on posting a new chapter every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday until I run out of them. I can't pinpoint a particular hour though since my own times are hard to predict. I hope this isn't too bothersome.
> 
> Thank you for reading this novel-like note. I deeply appreciate it and apologise for its length but I hope you found it useful somehow. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and enjoy what's coming next. Feel free to send me your feedback. I'd love to know what you think. Thanks in advance.


	2. Chapter 2

Phryne didn’t hear the knocks on the door neither did she hear the first three ‘Mademoiselle Fisher’ the maid had said to try to gauge if she would be welcome in the room. It was only when Mathilde put the coffee tray on the desk and started to open the curtains that she started to slowly move.

«Bonjour, Mlle Fisher», repeated Mathilde, a local young woman in her early twenties with tendrils of dark blonde hair falling out of her white cap, the rosy cheeks of a healthy country girl, and an amiable and very polite demeanour who was working for the Montgomerys during the summer in order to save up some money that would help pay her studies so she could become a teacher.

«Bonjour», mumbled Phryne as a response, still groggy with sleep and laying on her side, her eyes closed.

«Quelle heure est-il?»

«A little after 9 o’clock», said Mathilde in her native language. She spoke some English but they always talked in French. Phryne had been rather appalled to find that her mastery of the tongue was way less swift than what she had thought and appreciated the chance to practice.

Miss Fisher opened her eyes, took a deep breath and turned around, laying stomach up now. Getting to that position was the hard part. Afterwards, she moved quickly, straightening herself up and arranging the white sheet over her legs.

Mathilde picked up the tray and put it on Phryne’s lap. Breakfast would be served downstairs but a cup of coffee was presented in each room beforehand to ready the guests for the day.

This was another of those moments that caught Phryne by surprise and let her discover how much she missed the people she had left behind in Melbourne once again. She knew she did, but it never seemed as acute as when little details of the daily life at Chateau Ondine reminded her of 221B’s.

The coffee was tasty and Mathilde knew when to continue and talk to Phryne and when to run the bath and return to her tasks having exchanged nothing more than the expected greetings and arrangements but these mornings lacked Dot’s warmth, attention, and the friendship they had forged over the past year.

**xxx**

Like nearly all the meals Phryne had had since she had arrived at Juan Les Pins, breakfast was served outside.

The sky was already tremendously blue but even if it wasn’t as hot as it would as the day went by, the table had been set under the shade of two large parasols and laid with immaculate white tablecloth, plates, cups, and saucers and the usually bright silverware.

Under another parasol nearby, the cocktail cart from last night had been replaced by a tea cart with bread, croissants, cheese, ham, fresh fruit, and orange juice.

William was already seated at the head of the table, reading _Le Figaro_ while he sipped his coffee.

Una and Caroline were talking about some art exhibition and Nola and Joséphine were feeding Pavlov small pieces of ham from their plates, each one at the time, laughing.

Their enjoyment made for a stark contrast to Philip’s demeanour as he ate silently and looked at the garden ahead as if he was sizing it.

«Good morning», greeted Phryne in a cheerful tone. She had feared she might be late, but Elliott and Alphonse were nowhere to be seen. Normally she wouldn’t worry about keeping a schedule, but she was a guest at someone’s house and it did change the things a bit.             

The people at the table replied with greetings of their own and she took the free chair next to Nola after picking up fruit, a croissant, and a glass of orange juice from the cart.

«I like going to houses with dogs», Nola said as she patted Pavlov’s head, «I get to play with them without having to worry if they’re nibbling on the sofa or sullying the carpet. A bit like friend’s with children».

Phryne laughed.

«Careful, Miss Murrow. Some people might be offended.»

«Would you be one of them, now that you have Jane? With her living abroad is more or less the same thing. You get to gloat about her accomplishments and get the excited letters without having to deal with the sulking», Nola said with a head gesture that gave away that she wasn’t being completely serious.

«I met her before coming here and I do get to gloat about how she’s the best fencer in her school and her French is perfect and about how good her grades in French, English, History, and Biology are. But this is also an adventure that she’s loving and that I’m glad I can provide her. She’s very bright and full of potential». Phryne didn’t mean to rebuke any possible judgement on Nola’s part because there was nothing to rebuke, but she was caught unware by the sudden realisation that she had felt she needed to say that Jane’s tour was for her benefit more than simply something Phryne had wanted her to do for her own sake.

«I’m sorry if I did offend you», Nola added. Her eyes had grown sombre and a shadow seemed to have dulled her complexion.

They fell so easily into the old patterns of their friendship, the fact that their lives had changed ever since they had been at school and did slip aside from now and then.

«I’m not offended at all», Phryne assured her with a smile, «You’re right in a way. I don’t think I could mother a small child and I’m glad Jane was way over that phase when we met each other.»

They laughed again, their confident rapport rebuilt.

«Where’s Elliott?», Phryne asked, putting a slice of ham on her croissant.

«Writing. He had a quick breakfast and went upstairs», replied Nola, patting Pavlov again and saying «I think that’s enough for now, don’t you?» when Joséphine gave him the last piece of cold meat on her plate.

The routines at Chateau Ondine were quite lax, but there was always something lined up. They were too restless to not have even an idea of what to do next even if that plan might fall by the wayside over something more exciting or simply the chance of lounging around the house reading, drawing or talking.

«There’s an exhibition at some gallery in the village and Una and Caroline were talking about dropping by to see it», said Nola, wiping her hands on the napkin.

Yet, for the time being, people seemed keener on going to the beach and got up from the table to go change and get their towels.

Phryne would join them later, but she went to her room, sat at the desk and took some sheets of paper out of the first drawer.

She still didn’t know exactly what to write, but she felt the will to tingling in her fingers as she rotated the pen between them. It would perhaps be easier to start by addressing Mr Butler, Cec, and Bert. She asked about the house, their work, how was Alice and if they had set a date for the wedding meanwhile. Even the Communist Party, referred to as «your redheaded friends», were mentioned and she reiterated that, while she wasn’t there, the cabbies were still welcome at her house and expected them to make use of it very often. She hoped Mr Butler’s gardening was going well and that she was sure he would deeply appreciate the Riviera landscape.

But there was something she hadn’t included in her missive: her fear that between her leaving and Dot and Hugh getting married the found family that had grown out of their investigations might have been disrupted beyond repair.

She filled out the three envelopes, put the letters inside, sealed them and put them on a pile on her right.

Aunt Prudence’s message asked after her wellbeing and relayed the latest information about Margaret. Phryne’s efforts had been apparently in vain, but maybe her mother would listen to herand might Aunt Prudence still rule Melbourne’s society as deftly as before.

Phryne filled another envelope and put it on top of the others.

_Dearest Dot,_

_I hope the married life is treating you well. If not, be sure that I shall get into my plane and return at the earliest convenience because I cannot bear to imagine you unhappy. You know the marriage path isn’t one I see in my immediate future, but I desire it brings you the joy and fulfilment you believe it would._

_Has Hugh understood that being a modern woman doesn’t mean that you can’t be a wife? It may seem out of character for me to say this, but I believe you two can be truly happy and I hope it doesn’t come at the expense of your dreams and volition._

_I am sure you are able to handle Mrs. Collins, the elder, with grace, dignity, and kindness, but, if you are still a bit at sea, I regret not being there to cheer you on. May this letter serve as so and feel free to picture me screaming at the top of my lungs from the window, no matter the fact that I’m on the other side of the world._

_I met Jane. She sends her love and, while she told me she had already thanked you in one letter of her own, she also asked me to thank you once again for the biscuits you sent her. They were a success all around._

_I am sorry for not having written sooner, but I’m certain you have been busy with discovering all the facets of this new phase of your life. And don’t blush as you read my words! Aren’t you a married woman now?_

_Love,_

_Phryne_

As she re-read what she had just written, Phryne smiled, imagining Dot’s eyes widening as they passed over the lines. Would she read it at breakfast before Hugh left for the station or at the kitchen table at St. Kilda after dropping by to have tea with Mr Butler and take care of the house?

As Phryne composed a letter for Mac where she joked that she probably would be up to her elbows in work now that she wasn’t around to swiftly investigate murders or even scare criminals away just by their fear of her tremendous intellect and how England didn’t feel like ‘home’ as it had once been, her words flew more easily and it almost seemed like a conversation at her house except she would have to wait some weeks for the reply instead of having Mac speaking her mind right away from the armchair across hers.

Six envelopes were now placed against the mirror.

The seventh wouldn’t be so uncomplicated. Phryne rotated the pen between her fingers once again but she still didn’t feel settled enough and took off the pearl silk long-coat she was wearing, letting it fall over the back of the chair as if getting rid of it could actually unburden her.

What could she say after their kiss and having invited him to come after her? Those words had practically jumped out of her, but it was difficult to follow them up when this was such a novel situation for her.

Phryne might be having some trouble writing, but it wasn’t like they hadn’t kept in touch. She had sent him telegrams as well, but they were messages in the vein of the ones she had sent to 221B or Aunt Prudence, even if they included ‘Come After Me’ from now and then . Taking them back to their goodbye at the runway felt right even if it was more of a nod to that moment than a sort of reassurance that she hadn’t forgotten. She missed him both as a friend and as… whatever this new complementary role in her life was, which while feeling slightly odd wasn’t exactly uncomfortable.

His replies were short as succinct as befitting to him and the medium, but Phryne was confronted with an unexpected thrill when she had received the stack of them once in London; since time was of the essence and she would never linger for long in the places she stopped for fuel, rest, and food, she had chosen to have them forwarded there. Despite the fact that she was the one who hadn’t decided to go back as soon as she had left her father at home, it was extremely exciting to get any response from Australia, but there was a particular weight to reading his ‘SCS QUIET NOW STOP VERY STRANGE’, ‘THANKS FOR THE NEWS’,  ‘BON VOYAGE PHRYNE’. She knew he hadn’t ventured further as a sign of respect and she appreciated it, even if she was sure that he was as astonished by the way they had parted as she was.

 _Dear Jack_ , she wrote at last, her calligraphy neater than usual.

Had she ever scribbled his name anywhere before? The suddenness of this thought jolted her.  She doubted she had done so. She wasn’t a woman of keeping diaries and the particular arrangements of her business didn’t require paperwork or other reports. A flash of heat crawled from her heart to her neck and from her neck to her face. Phryne Fisher rarely blushed, but a quick glance at the small mirror on her right let her see that her pale skin was rosier than it was usual. She touched her cheek with the tip of her fingers.

 _I hope this letter finds you well whenever it finally gets to you,_ she continued.

_Given that apologising for the fact that this is my first letter since I left Australia would be terribly out of character, I think you would appreciate me skipping that part._

Phryne reread those sentences. They were light but not too much, she hoped.  In that moment, she nearly wished she hadn’t taken so long to write. Perhaps it would have been easier to do so without letting the distance between them seem even wider than what it already was instead of letting days go by and act as indifferent as possible to those around her. ‘Act’ indeed, for while she was apparently fully engaged in what happened in her days and had actually been enjoying herself, there was always a pinch that kept reminded her of that kiss, of the words they had exchanged and of many of the choices that had seemed to lead there, not that she was that keen on that sort of philosophies.

She had already been in love – and this is what was happening with Jack, wasn’t it? – But it had been a while since and her outlook on life and on love had definitely changed over the course of those years. Besides, she had never had to write many letters to the men who had been part of those loves; they were steadily rooted in her time and place and all the words that they had felt like saying had been said aloud or whispered into the ear of their intended recipient.

_As you may have noticed by the ‘Republique Française’ on the stamp, I am no longer in England and have traded the dull grey skies of London for the vibrant Riviera and its luxurious greens and blues as far as they eye can reach._

_I do not mean to make you jealous, but I believe you would appreciate being here a great deal and I regret it not being possible (for the moment at least;  you know I’m an optimist). The landscape is as breath-taking and sunny as advertised, the people that have so warmly taken me in are nice and interesting and art buzzes in every corner of the house.  I would include more details if that didn’t mean a handful of extra pages I am certain you would like to read, but for which I’m afraid I do not have an envelope big enough. Besides, I truly do not mean to make you jealous. Maybe in another time, after I have ingrained myself with the other guests and everyone has shared their secrets with me. You know I am a patient listener and while gossip may not be exactly something we are prone to, its value can never be underestimated (as we have very well known over the last year)._

_‘Over the last year!’… Since we are fully aware of the existence of calendars, noticing how much time has passed and how fast it did so would be completely pointless, but it turns out that ignoring it doesn’t feel very organic, particularly considering how tumultuous our first interactions were. Perhaps all this sun and sea is affecting me in the end of the day. Let us hope not. I would hate to lose the little reason I have left over the mercilessness of elements that could be easily avoided but that at the same time give Juan-Les-Pins and the surrounding area its allure and charm._

_I am afraid I must apologise for the sappiness that appears to have taken over me, but as much as I would like to be as eloquent and witty as I usually am, I seem to be hiding behind these agreeable platitudes because I find myself wishing I could simply pour my feelings into the envelope with the easiness of pouring tea into a cup instead of having to translate them into words so they can be conveyed and travel the world until they reach Australia, until they reach you. It seems that no vocabulary can do them justice. How odd, intense, and complex this situation is, especially because ‘complex’ doesn’t begin to cover it and the fact that we parted even before anything could actually begin doesn’t definitely make matters more manoeuvrable._

_Truth be told, I can’t fathom why I hadn’t written to you like this sooner but let it be known that I hadn’t contacted anyone in Australia this thoroughly as well up to now, in case this is of some comfort for you, not that you need it of course. Your sense of self and confidence are incredibly attractive, Jack._

_At risk of repeating myself, coming after me may not be practical or even sensible, but the wish still stands and a letter is the closest to being able to achieve that in the current circumstances, is it not?_

_I have just realised that since I don’t have your home address I will have to send this to the station. I hope that, in order to free you to pursuit your investigations and catch criminals without my precious help – which I can still provide from where I am albeit in a more limited fashion, you just have to ask – you haven’t designated a constable to take mail opening  off your hands. It would be fun and exciting to surprise him (dear Hugh probably if you were indeed to trust someone with the task), but even I can admit that there would be room for some degree of confusion and revelations we may not be ready to make public yet._

_It nearly goes without saying that I’m looking forward to hearing from you. You can write to this address, I believe I’ll be around here for a while. It has been the most fun._

_Love,_

_Phryne_

She read her words a second time. Some sections did not seem very ‘her’ at first, but they had come out so fluidly there could be no lie in them. For her relationship history, the one she shared with Jack was full of firsts or, at least, new iterations. There was a lot more to consider when emotions were also involved and she found herself terribly enthusiastic over such re-discovery.

Phryne addressed the envelope, put the letter inside it, closed it, and stretched her hands. After a refreshing sea dive and maybe lunch, she would go to the village and post them, already so eager to get their responses back to her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading the second chapter of this story and for your comments on the first. They mean a great deal to me. I hope you enjoyed this and didn't find Phryne's correspondence too out of character.
> 
> I hope you enjoy what's coming up next tomorrow and it's nothing new that I'd love to hear from you.


	3. Chapter 3

Juan Les Pins might not be deemed as sophisticated as Cannes or Antibes by some but it was a long way from the patch of sand and pines it had once been and much busier now than when it was shaped into a seaside resort in 1882.

That afternoon, the beach was dotted with parasols and sizzled with the rush of the people who had taken to it to seek refuge from the heat in the pleasant waters, their heads swaying like buoys scattered above the sea. The singsong of the local accent as families and friends gathered there was carried breezily and hung over the street like a light cloud.

Most of those who weren't enjoying the beach, at the casino, at the Hotel Provençale, at the Parc de la Pinéde, soaking in the pools of their villas, amusing themselves in the more secluded beaches or devoted to their artistic endeavours were currently walking up and down the Boulevard de La Plage.

Their group stood out from the crowd, even if distinguished foreigners had been flocking to the town over the course of the decade, drawn not only by the good weather but also by the glitz and glamour fostered first by Édouard Baudoin and then Frank Jay Gould.

Elliott and Phillip had stayed at home but it still wasn't possible for them all to walk side by side. Maybe as an unconscious consequence of being the hosts, Una and William took ahead, laughing, their arms linked, Pavlov trotting along at the end of a leather lead held by her. Una was wearing a chiffon tea dress with a tiered skirt in a purple background print and small round motifs in white and orange that fluttered as she moved and her head was sheltered from the sun by a dark purple straw hat with a wide brim and a white ribbon. As he often did while in the Riviera, her husband had eschewed the tie and had a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck on and a light grey suit complemented by a paisley pocket square folded into a puff and a fedora.

Alphonse and Joséphine came afterwards, their bodies stiff and barely exchanging a word between them, but not being able to avoid drawing attention as they often did. He had come to favour cotton Breton stripe shirts over the summer and when he went out for an afternoon walk like this he wore them with a navy coat, white trousers, espadrilles, and a newsboy cap. In spite of her acting talent, Mlle D'Aramitz chose not hide her feelings but she still shone like a small sun, clad in a long-sleeved amber dress with a v-neckline and pleated skirt. Her blonde hair was covered by a white cloche straw hat with a silk ribbon and matching flower appliqué, her flashing eyes were shaded behind tortoise sunglasses like Phryne's and the bright red lipstick she had applied appeared even more flagrant in those layers of such light colours.

Nola, Caroline, and Phryne closed the parade.

«What skill did you have to pick up the fastest?», asked Mrs. Van Asten. She was a talented pianist and violinist but these were somewhat common accomplishments in her set and she was supposed to keep them inside the house, entertaining guests for a little while being the only exception no one would raise an eyebrow at. Caroline was fascinated by some of the hobbies picked up by people who moved in that intense artistic environment, slightly envious, she could say, and Phryne's stories as a private detective were even more entrancing.

«Fan dancing, probably», replied Phryne. «It may sound easy and I had seen it done before, but it's harder than it looks. One must tease without being vulgar and take time without making whoever is watching too impatient. I had about four hours to learn to master it as a practiced show-girl» ,she continued, twirling her parasol. It was a recent acquisition while in London and its handle still felt unfamiliar in her hand. As much as she would have liked it, it hadn't been possible to pack much in the plane and the amount of time it would take for her things to get to England had discouraged her from sending for her entire wardrobe by boat, preferring to shop for whatever was necessary as she noticed its lack. That afternoon she was wearing a sailor style blouse in navy with cream collar, placket, and cuffs, round dark blue buttons and a cream chiffon skirt she had had made in Paris as well as a navy straw hat with feathers placed on the left she had also ordered there .

«Did you have to put it into practice?», asked Caroline, unable to completely hide her curiosity, her eyes widening as she put the question forward. This time, Phryne couldn't exactly say if the change in her cheeks was the result of the reflection of the orange colour of her dress on her pale skin or if she was really blushing. Given the way she dressed and what Phryne knew of Caroline's life, it was difficult to remember sometimes that she was the youngest of them all and that had been brought up in a conservative family with strong and tight moral values and had married a man who also held tradition and a certain way of carrying oneself in the world in a similar way.

«Oh my, I love this story», said Nola with a laugh, concealing her mouth behind her hand.

«I did. Lulu Lorita had been presented as the main attraction of the night, you see. I had an investigation I had to conduct and failing to provide the patrons of the Imperial Club with the expected show wouldn't help the matters with the Madam, who wasn't particularly fond of me to begin with, and I couldn't afford to make an enemy out of her.»

«And did it work?», asked Caroline, any possible awkwardness having been replaced by amusement, particularly in light of Nola having laughed again.

«It didn't help catching the murder directly but it improved Lulu's standing inside the club and amongst the other girls», Phryne replied, very matter of fact.

«What she's not telling you is that nearly all her household and the Police were in the audience and she was wearing the least clothing possible», completed Nola, touching the small brim of her black hat. «Oh, I wish I had been there. I do not know any of them personally but from what Phryne has told me about them, I think I can guess their reactions and I believe it would have been priceless».

She also carried a parasol, hers of a light grey that went with the open sleeves of her dress and with the outside lines of the print of large green leaves on a black background.

«You know what, Miss Murrow? I would consider it priceless. Not everyone had the privilege to witness what was probably the best display of fan dancing ever seen in Melbourne», Phryne said, feigning seriousness, but breaking into a smile afterwards.

Caroline laughed too in a way that made her fear she wouldn't be able to stop so soon.

Despite the limitations the politicians and religious leaders had implemented and that were equally enforced by some sectors of society in the name of morality, times had changed in America too, but it was hard for her not to not be swept up by the various freedoms one could benefit from while in France. Well, saying while by the Mediterranean would be more accurate. The Van Astens went to Paris for a couple of weeks each year. Caroline would update her wardrobe, Philip called on some of his European clients and took care of some of his own matters, and they went to the Opéra, staying as far from Montmartre, Montparnasse, and the other bohemian artistic hubs as much as possible, which made Philip's insistence in the set and unchallengeable summers at Chateau Ondine a somewhat intriguing choice.

«Are you afraid that they'll jump at you with a brush and turn you into a painting on the spot?», Caroline had told her husband in jest once when she had tried to broach the subject with him.

«It's not like that», Philip had replied, but he hadn't elaborated further.

She hadn't pushed him more and apart from one or other instance where she had made similar remarks, she hadn't been able to get more than «It's not like that» from him. Caroline wondered sometimes if it derived from the fact that she wasn't as direct as she could be despite the trust they shared.

There was culture in New York, obviously, and considering that both the Besselinks and the Van Astens had season seats at the Metropolitan Opera, sat in the board of the Museum of the City, sponsored libraries and were involved in a long list of other cultural activities, she was at the centre of it in a way that she wasn't in France. This wasn't just about the art that surrounded her, it was about the people too, particularly women like those she had met there. She admired Una, Nola, Joséphine and, more recently, Phryne, looked up to them and aspired to follow their example.

Caroline had two sisters and friends she cherished a great deal and to whom she was close but most of them were bound by the same limits, rigid education, and role as she was, their will to change the matters strong but not enough to carry that transformation forward. Those who had wished to do so had gone to university and tried to find a meaning in their lives beyond the many walls of the mansions in which they lived, but the concessions their families were willing to make didn't went beyond providing higher education and encouraging them to pursue founding charity institutions or serve in the appropriate boards. Some of them were married and even when they had done so by love it had been advisable that the men they had chosen had a particular set of attributes, from background to job, family fortune to prospects. A share of hearts had been broken because they didn't fit the bill and the women who loved them hadn't been able to just step ahead and fight their families.

She was still surprised by how much she seemed to flourish during those months in a way that didn't happen when she was in New York and that, sadly, she still hadn't managed to carry back home when it was time to return. She was shy at first, as she had always been, but when she was in Juan Les Pins it became increasingly difficult to smother the curious streak that had ran in her personality since she was a child as she had been told so many times she should do. Even if these changes happened slowly, she was no longer so calm and quiet, she no longer spoke only very little, she was no longer nearly invisible and instead made people aware that was actually occupying a chair at the table, a place on the sofa, and a bit of rock by the sea. Her amicable countenance sprung up from her beyond the required politeness once she had felt more at ease around the people in the house, including the seemingly intimidating Joséphine - a funny and encouraging woman herself in fact -, which was a feat in itself and for which she was proud, as ridiculous as it might seem.

«Are your investigations always that lively?», asked Caroline, once she had managed to regain her composure.

«Let's just say that dull moments are very rare», replied Phryne with a smile, continuing to regale them with tales of her cases as they made their way to the gallery owned by an acquaintance of the Montgomerys to visit the exhibition Una and Caroline had been talking about in the morning.

Afterwards, awash in the pleasant afternoon, they got into their cars and went back to Chateau Ondine. Once they arrived, they threw themselves onto the leather sofas, melted by sun and satisfaction, as Caroline played Stravinsky's «Les Cinq Doigts» according to a sheet signed by the composer himself which she had found in the music drawer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the third chapter of this story. I hope you enjoyed it even if it mostly shed light on an original character instead of Phryne. I had plenty of doubts about it, since it was one those instance where the story almost wrote itself, as strange as it may seem to those of you who don't write. In the end, I thought it would be interesting to maintain it because it presents a different kind of perspective than Phryne's. Caroline is younger - much you might say since I take Phryne to be in her 40s and Caroline would be almost 20 years her junior - and informed, but in spite of the time that had passed, her education would still be fairly conservative.
> 
> I hope you didn't find it too much of a chore to read and can find some value in it.
> 
> Thank you so much for your warm welcome to «How Beautiful and Free». You know I'd love to hear from you and I hope the next chapters, to be posted next week, will still be to your liking.


	4. Chapter 4

Phryne blinked as she approached the casino. The moon hung in the sky like a round white plate but its silvery light fell into Elliott’s motorcar like dust and the stark contrast with the bright lamps of the iron marquis, so refulgent they seemed on the verge of catching fire, had hurt her eyes.

It was a large building, painted in white, with two high turrets with tile roofs and surrounded by a luxurious garden that, in the back, overlooked the sea. Despite it being night, the curtains were open, bathing the small trees and the bushes in the warm light coming from the inside. 

The similar establishment at Juan Les Pins was very pleasant in fact, but it could hardly be compared to the one Phryne, Nola, and Elliott had decided to go to that evening.

If their party was particularly bored at Chateau Ondine, they would go to Cannes, have a drink at the Carlton, shop or walk up and down the Croisette. But tonight the others had decided to stay in though, Caroline complaining of a growing headache and the others preferring to have a nice meal and appreciating the still unheard records of William’s collection instead of putting themselves through the swirling road that would take them to Cannes.

They were let in by a uniformed doorman who tipped his round hat as they walked by him.

The interior hall à l’italienne had a glass-tiled roof that sheltered it from the breeze that rose from the sea but allowed to look at the dark blue sky above, beyond the lines of lamps and simple chandeliers hovering over strategic points. The arches all around the room on the ground and on the first floor gave it the appearance of a patio, garnished with flowerbeds, low bushes and some wicker benches where the casino-goers could take a break, and wide steps lead to the other rooms of the casino. 

On their way to the restaurant, they paused by the cloakroom, where the ladies deposited their silk shawls, revealing the smart outfits underneath: Phryne’s a sapphire silk chiffon dress with floral motifs in silver lamé and a boat neck, worn over a slip in the same colour, complimented by a silvery band around her head, and Nola’s a moss green lamé gown with a dropped sash at the waist and longer panels at the back. Elliott, clad in a tailored dinner suit and black tie, looked equally elegant.

«Bonsoir», greeted the _maître d’hôtel_ as he saw them walk towards the podium behind which he stood. «Mlle Murrow, Mlle Fisher, Monsieur Murrow, nous sommes très honorés de vous recevoir au Restaurant des Ambassadeurs une outre fois». He was about 40 years old, had dark blond hair, and his blue eyes shone with recognition that went beyond meeting regular clients. The service and food presented at such a place would aim to be faultless and luxurious nevertheless, but receiving illustrious guests was still good for business and reputation.

«Bonsoir, Monsieur Simonin», greeted Nola, leading the maître’s gaze from her brother to herself. He was clearly waiting for Elliott to be the one conducting the conversation, but she always took some (petty, she acknowledged) joy in twisting situations where the script usually dictated that men were in charge of talking. Phryne and Elliott smiled and greeted him afterwards.

«I made a reservation for three this afternoon», Nola continued, with the particular smile she used in these situations.

Simonin consulted the planner in front of him and said in English:

«This way please», showing them to a table by a window. The dining room had high white ceilings and octagonal frosted glass lamps were pending from art nouveau medallions. The arched windows were garlanded by heavy velvet curtains and white mouldings, in contrast with the light green walls and the dark beech furniture with carved shells in the back of the chairs, a nice touch nodding to the nearby sea.

«Could we have some champagne, s’il vous plaît?», said Elliott upon receiving a positive answer after a silent but quick assessment regarding whether the ladies would enjoy it too.

«Certainment, Monsieur», said the mâitre, without asking further questions because the way his customer had phrased his request gave away that nothing but the best would do. He handed them the menus, a folded piece of rich cream cardstock with an exquisite and colourful illustration of four figures in eveningwear by a fountain on the cover, and scurried inside to make Elliott’s wish come true.

They sat quietly for some moments as they read the names of the promised delicacies, written in a elegant font.

Two waiters came by the table and each of them greeted Phryne, Nola, and Elliott with polite «Bonsoirs». The tallest one carried the chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot inside a silver-plated champagne bucket and three glasses on an elegant tray covered by a white piece of cloth so they wouldn’t slip. The other waiter, equally young but with an experienced air about him, approached them empty-handed, but he was quickly engaged in putting the glasses on their proper places on the table. He then proceeded with picking up the bottle and taking the necessary steps to open it with exact and professional movements: unwrapping the foil that protected the wire cage around the cork and untwisting the wire around the neck of the bottle as he held the cork with his thumb. Those were particularly mechanical gestures, but they weren’t completely devoid of some grace. When he rotated the bottle and uncapped it, a little sizzle was heard and a swirling mist was released.

The waiter walked to Elliott’s right side and, with one thumb in the dip at the end of the bottle, turned it towards the guest, so he could see the label. He then supported the neck of the bottle with his index and middle fingers and poured a little champagne inside the glass so Elliott could taste it. Murrow nodded and, making the needed pauses for the champagne to settle, the waiter served the ladies before replenishing his glass and leaving the bottle immersed in the ice bucket on the wooden stand by the table.

(There wasn’t much Nola could do in regard to the wine routine. Men chose the wine. Period.)

«I would like to propose a toast», Phryne announced after the waiters had left, raising her glass. «You  are two of my oldest friends, alongside Mac and Verónique, and I am very happy and feel very lucky I can be here with you tonight. To friendships that survive distance and age.»

«To friendships that survive distance and age», repeated the Murrow siblings, taking sips of their glasses.

«You have no idea how I reacted when I got your letter», said Nola. «I genuinely screamed your name so loudly, people rushed to see if I was suddenly ill or something similar. I am glad I decided to have all my mail re-sent here instead of letting it pile up in Paris», she continued, reaching across the table to take Phryne’s hand.

«I didn’t move from my desk when she howled like that because I know well by now how to decode her strange and loud signals», Elliott said playfully, «but your arrival was definitely a pleasant surprise.»

Phryne smiled at her friends and nearly jumped out of her seat to hug both of them, only being prevented by the arrival of Monsieur Simonin, ready to take their orders.

**xxx**

They still had coffee and tea at the table, but decided to choose their digestifs from the  bar in one of the gambling rooms.

It was a large and airy space, with tall doors and tall windows overlooking the garden and the sea, decorated with ceiling-high panels depicting golf and polo scenes amidst mahogany slabs and dark furniture that Phryne guessed was probably older than the one in the restaurant, judging by its sturdier lines.

On the left of the door, the long bar counter had a marble top and its front had carvings that matched those of the imposing wooden panel set against the wall. The ledges showcased an extensive array of drinks and glasses which allowed to concoct the popular cocktails as well as those asked for by guests who brought them from other establishments all around the world.

That casino had been built more than twenty years ago, keen on entertaining those who came to the Riviera for the winter escaping the Paris cold, the aristocrats bored out of their wits in their equally cold countries, the interlopers who were like leeches trying to absorb their sophistication and their poise by ordering the same cocktails they saw the rich, famous, and titled heads ask for even if they had to force themselves to not close their eyes as they swallowed the drinks, attempting at becoming a bit more like them as they rubbed shoulders playing baccarat, praying in silence to not lose the few assets they did have. (Their partners gambled away fortunes and estates as large as small countries, household silver items, their ancestors’ jewellery and even the clothes on their backs which hadn’t been paid for yet, but their names and eccentricity gave them cover and extravagance until it was all very sad, very sad indeed.) The dubious lenders hovering nearby, sleek bloodhounds out for even the slightest sign of despair. One man’s misery is another man’s chance and they would take as many as they could, many having been the miserable ones not long ago, some even becoming addicted to the power it gave them as the people they tried to skim off were addicted to the game. Women in elegant frocks and decked in diamonds that seemed even larger and clearer than what they actually were when they light of the chandeliers hit them in a certain angle as they walked by enthralled by the sophistication that oozed from the scene.

The faces erupting from the mist of cigar and cigarette smoke, from behind brims of glasses, dice and fans of cards might be different but the scenario itself hadn’t changed much and observing it with her own eyes was something that still held a great deal of fascination to Phryne, a microcosm inside a microcosm, ruled by its own commandments and pecking order, which was more volatile than it might seem at first sight. She recognised the patterns, but she was also enveloped by the sense of joy and celebration, carried by laughter and the music and the seemingly never-ending streams of the best champagne money could buy.

They were at a table in a corner but from which it was possible to see entrance of the room, the bar and the adjoining gambling rooms beyond a wide arch framed by open velvet burgundy curtains, while Elliott went out to try the European Roulette. He wasn’t much of a gambler, but he always took something out of it for his stories: the gist of a conversation, a mannerism, and the way someone’s shoulders slopped when they lost or how they threw their hands in the air when they won.

«It’s possible to come across a woman and passing by without offering her a drink. I have just met the man I was once close to marry and he didn’t do it», Nola said as she sat down, coming from the powder room.

«You broke his heart, I doubt he would be very keen on offering you anything no matter his high level of chivalry», replied Phryne, amused. «You hadn’t told me that Robbie Wilson is here».

«Apparently he arrived yesterday for some golf event. It was a somewhat stilted conversation as you may imagine. I think I did broke his heart and I am sorry for it to a certain degree because I really liked him, loved him even in some moments. We got along well in all regards and marrying him wouldn’t be that of a dreadful thing to do, but I am thankful I stopped myself in time. I was unsettled by the prospect of settling like that even he goes around Europe wherever his competitions take him and he’s not boring. Once he recovers from the heartbreak I’m sure he’ll find someone who will make him happy.»

«Nola Murrow, the heartbreaker. It suits you well.»

«Stop it. I have had good relationships which didn’t end up in pain for any of the involved. In fact, one of the reasons why I didn’t marry him was the past story with his cousin. It would be too big of a secret to keep.»

«If you were so afraid he might find about you and Fiona you could have just mentioned «the cousin» or an acquaintance. He might think it was Oliver?», Phryne said, in a nonchalant tone.

«Oliver? I thought you two had met. The man is a threat against everything that’s fun and exciting in life. Robbie would see right through it», reacted Nola, her dismay hard to point out as false or heartily felt.

«There’s no need to rile yourself up, Miss Murrow..»

«Thank you! I feared for a moment that the Australian sun on your head for a year had caused something to go awry.»

«Never. And they do have milliners there as well, you know, so I was never without the most wonderful hat on», replied Phryne smiling.

At the end of the gambling room, the complete band resumed playing after a small intermission filled by the skilful piano player alone.

«But enough about them. Tell me about you. We have and have not been together over this week. The first dinner we ended up catching up about other people. What has kept you in Australia for a year?», asked Nola, shifting in her chair, completely focused on what her friend might be about to say.

«I solved crimes. As strange as it may seem that’s what I did», replied Phryne with a genuine laugh and a flick of her head. «And I also met interesting people, many of them and in different degrees, attended tremendous parties that lasted until morning, danced in the hottest clubs in town… but finding Janey at last and Malcolm Foyle dead gave me the closure I was really yearning for», she continued, her tone growing sombre now. «I mean, I knew it wasn’t settled for me, even with Foyle in jail because we didn‘t know where Janey was and, as outlandish as this can sound, I had never come face to face to how unmeasurable this doubt hung over me until we did. While the rational me knew that she was probably dead, a little part of me childishly hoped that she could be alive but ensconced somewhere after having lost her memory or still hidden because Foyle hadn’t given up her location. I knew it was highly unlikely, but I clung to it in a way that was actually more harmful than helpful and I had never realised that.»

Phryne’s eyes started to well up and Nola gave her a handkerchief she took out of her bag.

«We can talk about other things if you want. I didn’t mean to take the conversation this way».

«Thank you». She had talked over those days and the emotions she had gone through with Jack, Dot, Aunt Prudence, but sharing it with Nola didn’t feel so much like rethreading a painful topic but more as reaching deeper and trying to cope a little better with a part of her history that could never be totally forgotten.

«No, it’s alright. It actually helps me», Phryne said with a reassuring nod. «It may sound odd, but I felt relieved when we finally got to know what had happened and were able to get her to the family mausoleum, resting where she should.»

«I am so sorry», offered Nola, holding Phryne’s hand, aware of how futile her words were in light of what her friend had gone through, but somewhat comforted by the fact that Phryne had managed to reach some conclusions and as peace as she could have. She and Elliott had had their disagreements and quarrels over the years, still did, and sometimes she was actually tired of mothering him, but she always pushed away the thought of ever losing him, let alone as dramatically as Phryne had lost Janey.

Phryne gave her a weak smile.

«If someone notices me, they’ll think I am drunk crying. I may do lots of a things in a casino, but crying whilst drinking isn’t one of them.»

Nola smiled at her. Phryne might be unusually aware of what people might think of her, but hiding behind a humorous remark when she got too close to her feelings wasn’t. Miss Murrow didn’t think Phryne was ashamed of them or trying to repress those emotions. She needed to make sense of them in her own time and way and then her true self would shine through and she would be the Phryne Fisher Nola had befriended all those years ago. Decades, even. Nola knew people who seemed larger than life who put that up because they wanted to convince themselves they were. If they were so, they would also be able to forget the darkness and the secrets they harboured within, wouldn’t they? But it was a lost battle and they could only hide behind it for so long. Phryne wasn’t like that. Miss Fisher was genuinely one of the most joyful people Nola had ever encountered, and the moments where she had grown a little withdrawn were the quick and painful reminder of the loss of her sister, like a little stab to her side. All the hardships she had endured hadn’t brought her down, not for long at least, and Nola admired her for it a great deal.

                «But this year also gave me great friends, a found family, I’d say, in addition to my own because I reconnected with my Aunt Prudence and my cousins», Phryne continued, her eyes dry now and warming up with the affection she had for those people, « I had an idea of my aunt as this haughty woman but while she does have a very strong sense of society under all that, she is compassionate and gets things done on top of it. Arthur’s death was a terrible blow, but she is not willing to lose herself to grief and to live her life the best she can and help those around her. I would like to be like her in some regards», Phryne said, putting into words a realisation that had dawned on her over that time in Australia. «It hasn’t been that long, but, in hindsight, I guess this was quite a pivotal year», she concluded.

«I would say so, guessing from what you said», agreed Nola, « despite all that suffering, you seem to be in a good place and as your friend, I am really happy for you.»

«I am», she said, taking a sip of her drink. «This is not. No one deserves room-temperature champagne.»

Nola laughed genuinely and was about to signal for the waiter to come over to their table but Phryne stopped her.

«No more for me. Someone has to drive the car.»

«Thank you for offering. It’s very kind», Nola said, raising her own glass towards Phryne in a silent toast. «I think I had an idea for the name of my publishing house.»

« Do tell».

«Phryne Books», Nola revealed with a tone coated in the certitude of her choice.

«Phryne Books», repeated Miss Fisher said, slightly puzzled.

«Why not? There’s the tremendous story of the other famous bearer and there’s you – independent, smart, resourceful, compassionate, witty, fun, ready to take your own life in your hands no matter what people say. Between you two, you cover everything the authors whose work I would like to publish would be and the kind of heroines whose stories I would like to be able to help telling. »

«Did you think I was fishing for compliments?», Phryne said, laughing again, «I think it’s a wonderful idea», she continued more seriously, «and not only because it also happens to be my name. I’m sure you will excel at this and many women authors will be pleased to find someone willing to publish their stories.»

«Thank you. I know people don’t think much of it, but I did learn some useful things at Roedean and I have learnt a great deal over the years editing Elliott’s writing. Besides, I think that while there are many things happening culturally, this type of thing could add something more to it. I’ll use these months to think exactly about what I want and maybe send some letters, but I want to get to work once I’m back in Paris», planned Nola, filled with such enthusiasm she spoke even faster than what she usually did. «I may even expand this into a gallery. There are many women artists around that could definitely benefit from some extra publicity.»

«If there’s any way I can help. Please tell, I would love to be part of such an endeavour.»

«I appreciate that», Nola was sure that Phryne would be a valuable asset. « Good thing Alphonse stayed behind», she then said quickly, lowering her voice.

«Why do you say that?», asked Phryne, getting closer to her. She had never noticed that she had missed the rampant gossip that hummed inside the artistic set until she had come to France and joined the party at Chateau Ondine. Everyone was supposedly free to do whatever they wanted, but that didn’t prevent news or rumours from blooming and travelling around.

«Do you see the guy that has just walked in?»

Phryne looked towards the door. A man in his early thirties with thick dark wavy hair was now making his way to the bar with such natural confidence that Phryne’s wasn’t the only gaze drawn to him. Dressed in the required dinner jacket, he had olive skin, intense brown eyes, a distinct yet very attractive nose and nicely drawn lips.

«Should I know him?», she asked.

«You admired some of his paintings this afternoon and if I were you, I would buy them as soon as possible because his popularity is definitely growing. Did you notice how Alphonse got all jittery when the gallery lady started to talk about Amadèu Noguès and how his streamlined stunning surrealism was so exciting William was so surprised he was still showing here instead of Paris, London, and New York only? Gertrude Stein did the same a couple of months ago at her salon, preferring his paintings to those of our dear Alphonse Pernot…», Nola revealed, still in a conspiratorial tone of voice.

«It’s quite an endorsement. No wonder that Alphonse isn’t exactly yearning to be Amadèu’s friend, I guess», Phryne said, still looking at the newly arrived.

«And… I have already met him socially a couple of times in Paris and I am thinking about introducing you two. He’s quiet now but he has a lovely voice which he uses to sing Provençal and Catalan traditional songs that will either make you cry your eyes out or start dancing on the table. Besides, he is talented, looks like that and I heard he is very skilful in other domains other than the easel and the stage. You have been strangely quiet on that front and I think you would get along well.»

Phryne took another look at Amadèu and said:

«He is certainly very handsome, dashing even I’d say, and I was planning on going back to the gallery to buy one of his paintings even before you said that, but I have had my share of painters. Why don’t you go there yourself?»

«Nah, he’s too short for me», said Nola with a straight face that made Phryne laugh because she knew that height would not be a hindrance if she felt drawn to someone and she guessed that they would probably be the same size. «And I’m not exactly at my leisure», revealed Nola, somewhat influenced by her friend’s reaction.

«That’s wonderful», said Phryne, «I think?», she ventured after noticing some reticence in her friend’s facial expression.

«It is», Nola said with a particular twinkle in her eyes that added to the general impish traces that laid upon her features.

«Who is it?»

Nola had been having fun ever since she had called off the engagement, something Phryne wholeheartedly supported, but this appeared to be something different and about which Nola seemed very excited.

«It’s still very new and I wouldn’t want to jinx it, but I may tell you someday down the road.»

«Very well. As long as you are happy», Phryne said with a smile.

«I am but I would be happier if that waiter came here. And how about you?»

«I have already told you about myself. There’s no reason to list names, is there?», Phryne replied with a tilt of her head.  «Two things: are you sure the waiter saw your sign and are those Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald?»

Nola was the one looking at people coming through the door this time.  A man with fair hair parted in the middle and light eyes had just walked in, linking arms with a lively-looking woman wearing a turquoise dress of the latest fashion.

«Is Elliott still by the roulette? He better be or we may have ourselves a boxing show after all», said Nola moving her head and trying to see if she could find her brother in the midst of the other casino goers at the gambling room.

«Are you serious? Does he have some problem with them?», asked Phryne, trying to grasp what could be so amiss between Elliott and the Fitzgeralds. It appeared that not even the sum of all the previous nights that the Casino Municipal de Cannes could surpass the eventful evening they were living so far.

«I have actually loved talking to them for a couple of times in Paris and I enjoy and admire his books and short-stories a great deal as you know. Her painting is quite interesting as well and I don’t know how the woman manages to do so many things at the same time, but Elliott does have his issues though. I think it’s just frustration talking but sometimes he rambles a bit about Scott. There may exist some similarities in their themes and a certain lyricism but they’re not copying each other in any regard and I keep telling him that people will not get them confused, there’s room for both and the more great literature out there the better, but I’m afraid it’s to little avail.  It’s somewhat ridiculous but you know Elliott can be a bit impulsive sometimes and a huge scene is not something we need at the moment. Do you see him?», Nola said. «I think we are safe if he doesn’t turn around», Phryne informed, believing that a figure by the baccarat table with their back turned to their direction was Elliott, but doubting he would actually throw a punch at Fitzgerald if they met. « I guess I could be the one punching him though.»

Phryne’s words made Nola jolt in her chair.

«One day I came home to find Dot in the kitchen trying to smother her sobs with her handkerchief. I asked her what had happened but she could only utter ‘it’s all so sad, Miss, so sad’. ‘What is, Dot? What is?’. I was trying to ask gently but I was starting to grow anxious with every tear. ‘He only had that friend. It’s all so sad, Miss’. When Dot finally pulled herself together to answer my question she turned the book on the table to me. She had just finished reading The Great Gatsby. I would have never guessed it. I doubt it’s on Father O’Leary’s recommendation list. I asked her how she had come to read it and it turns out that she had seen it on the shelf when she had been cleaning and she had found the cover so beautiful she had had gotten curious and while she wasn’t sure about if she should be reading it, she was interested in the story and found some sentences lovely. I want to punch in the face whoever makes Dot cry… Well, now that I think of it, I guess I want to do that to him because he wrote the book but I may also want to punch you since you were the one who sent me the American version and its enticing cover. Does your brother even know you did that?»

«I am truly sorry I made Dot cry. I haven’t met her yet but from what you say she deserves all the good things in the world», Nola said, making a small pause that meant to underline that she wasn’t mocking the situation at all, « and my brother will not know that I’m sending away that sort of thing. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.»

The waiter appeared at last and quickly went away with the order for another glass of champagne for Nola. Perhaps to make up for the previous delay, he soon returned and apologised profusely, hoping that everything was up to Miss Murrow’s taste now.

«I’m sorry to interrupt, but would you like to dance?»

Phryne turned to the side. Elliott was standing up with his arms falling alongside his body, looking at her with that earnestness that always showed in his face to a certain degree, whether he wanted it or not.

«Of course. Excuse me», she said as she got up from her chair.

«Please don’t offer her a drink», Nola said, which made Phryne laugh and Elliott’s face reflect the confusion his sister’s words had elicited. It seemed that the Fitzgeralds had went to the patio meanwhile and the risk of an encounter had been avoided for the moment.

He signalled for her to move ahead and they walked towards the area in front of the band where other couples were already dancing.

«What was that? Did I do something wrong?»

«Nothing, don’t worry. It was just the result of something we had talked about earlier this evening.»

When they reached their destination, Phryne took Elliott’s hand, feeling the calluses left behind by the pen on his index finger and thumb, even more pronounced now than what she remembered, and put the other on his shoulder, surprising herself with how easily she found the exact same spot she had taken so long ago. Elliott held her hand and put the other on Phryne’s back, no longer feeling that laying it on her waist would be appropriate, their friendship and long history notwithstanding. Both were a bit stiff at first as they reacquainted them with each other’s movements, but once they overcame that realisation, they settled into a shared rhythm, which turned out to be actually less surprising than what they could have expected.

«You are aware you could have said ‘no’, aren’t you?», he said, as they danced.

«That’s not the first thing I expected to hear from you, but fear not, I didn’t accept your invitation against my will», she said with a smile. «Why do you say that?», Phryne asked, genuinely curious. The unsureness in his invitation hadn’t been missed by her, but his words seemed rather odd nevertheless.

«You may have not noticed it, but you made a small pause before answering», he replied, his tone rather light but with a tinge of insecurity underneath.

«I didn’t mean to. Dancing with you was always a pleasure», she said.

Elliott smiled and lowered his eyes, keeping quiet for a few seconds.

«It’s strange to realise that we danced like this nearly ten years ago», Elliott said.

«And how so much has happened meanwhile since then», Phryne pointed out. On someone else’s lips, those words might have seem manipulative, but not on his. That earnestness had been at the forefront now, his features softened by it.

Despite Nola and Phryne’s close friendship and the fact that she had stayed with the Fishers for weeks during some holidays, Phryne and Elliott had only met for the first time in Paris in 1921. Phryne had seen a picture of him and heard a great deal about Elliott before though: how he shone in the debate team, his dream of being a writer, and his participation in The Yale Record and The Yale News, where he revealed himself as very dextrous both in humorous as well as fictional and non-fictional writing and how he was part of the Yale Dramatic Association, as a writer and a performer. She had been amused but hadn’t given much thought to it until that night at the Dingo Bar -  Café Anatole having sadly become a place she didn’t visit very often anymore due to how much it was intertwined with René and the risk that she might meet him again there by accident. That night, she hadn’t been taken aback by Elliott right away either, truth be told, because even if some years had passed and she had tried very hard to leave the heartbreak and the scars behind, René still loomed over her like a dark shadow she couldn’t shed and she didn’t feel particularly ready for much of an attachment. But she had grown fond of Elliott as they met more frequently and she had liked not only his good looks, but had also discovered his humour and his intelligence.

The smell of strong coffee had replaced alcohol’s in his breath. Phryne appreciated that he had tried to sober himself up a little before inviting her to dance even if he hadn’t had that much champagne during dinner. His growing drinking habit had already driven a significant edge between them all those years ago. Judging by his current situation and her own circumstances back then, she would have broken up with him eventually regardless of the feelings they had for each other but, for a moment, she found herself wondering about what her life might have been if they had remained together. She might had lived between France and America; Paris in the winter and the Riviera in the Summer, New York somewhere in the middle. She might have never gone back to Australia. This last thought made her shiver.

«I hope you’re not trying to woo me. Dancing is known to have some effect upon the women of my family, but I’d like to consider myself immune to it by now», Phryne said. It had come out as a bit of a joke, but she wanted to put the cards in the table nevertheless, even if she truly believed that they had sealed their situation irrevocably back then. She cherished the memories of long nights dancing and drinking in smoky clubs and cafés, of walks around Paris, of lazy days in bed, but she didn’t yearn to take part in romantically similar ones with him again.

«Has someone made you so?»

«Maybe», she replied, engulfed by a feeling of shock. Up to that moment, Phryne hadn’t mentioned Jack or how they had parted to anyone, not even Nola, and she didn’t even know why she had been acting like this. How strange it was to realise that her father of all people was the only one in the know except for Jack and herself. He hadn’t brought it up neither during their trip or while in London, but she wished she didn’t have to live with that possibility looming over.

«I’m glad to know. I truly am», he said with genuine feeling, «But don’t worry at all. I just wanted to dance with an old friend.»

The shape of his face conjugated with his expressive green eyes gave him a kind of sad, sombre look. That kind that never actually left him for good, she concluded, now that she was looking at him as she hadn’t in many years. Phryne could remember thinking this even when they were barely acquainted with each other, in spite of the rave reviews and sales figures of _The Hostage of Eternity_ that had turned him into a darling of the literary world and he glowed like the most talked-about debutante after the ball. There was something beyond his confidence and excitement about moving to Paris, where so much was happening after Yale, a stint in the Army that had brought him to France but not to combat, and some time at an advertising agency he hadn’t enjoyed much. He liked writing, but that didn’t include copy for soaps and kitchen products.  It wasn’t an excuse, but maybe it was what had driven him to drinking, the attempt of running way from whatever held him back even if only for a while.

«Why hadn’t you asked before then?», Phryne said, managing to collect herself at last.

«I have to confess I was afraid you might find it ridiculous», replied Elliott, dropping his eyes for a while, but looking back at Phryne with a small smile. Back then when they had been together, she had always appreciated that for all his confidence and bravado, he wasn’t afraid of showing that they weren’t faultless and that he had his moments of vulnerability.

«I feel honoured, actually», Miss Fisher said, and it was true. While Nola and her exchanged frequent correspondence, Phryne and Elliott’s contact was way more sparse, mainly through birthday and Christmas cards and congratulatory notes when his books were out (it was more complicated to keep count of his short stories while in Australia), but she was very fond of him and still considered him a dear friend.

«It just occurred to me that you apologised for your attire on our first date, even if you looked way sharper than the men I was coming across at the time. ‘I am sorry, but they left my trunks in New York instead of loading them on the ship, as contrived as it may seem’. You were wearing a three-piece grey suit, a white shirt, and a golden tie that complimented your eyes beautifully, but apparently not being Brooks Brothers and Arrow was significant for you».

«I am afraid I am still that shallow», he acknowledged with a smile. « I like my clothes tailored to myself as they do at Brooks and Arrow and I wasn’t able to get that on such short notice. It took about a handful of _rendez-vous_ with other people around us for me to feel confident you would accept my personal invitation», he acknowledged with a smile.

«Oh no. I wasn’t saying this despairingly. It just came to me and I don’t even know why. And let it be known that you look very dashing, not that you need a beautiful dinner jacket to do so.»

«Thank you for compliment», he replied with a nod, «I can’t pretend that my ego doesn’t appreciate it.»

Phryne smiled back at him. It wasn’t a completely original exchange, but at the same time it didn’t feel stale either. A call-back and a reminiscence without need for further explanation, a ritual almost even.

The song had ended meanwhile and they moved out to the garden, walking to the balustrade and standing there, resting their hands on it while they watched the sea, dark and inscrutable.

«What brought you here?», she asked. As it had happened with Nola, being surrounded by the larger group assembled at Chateau Ondine, while very pleasant, didn’t leave much space to sharing confidences and they gladly traded the opportunity to dance for the possibility of talking frankly with each other. Elliott still retained a bit of the exuberance she had known in him, but more often than not he just sat about, made small talk, smoke in the corners and withdrew to his room to work. He had always done those things, but there was a slowness to his gestures that lead her to believe that there was more to it.

«But the sun and the sea, you mean?»

Their features were lit by the moon falling over them and the light coming from the casino and Phryne saw his had relaxed a little. She knew what he might be surrounded by many people at all times and all places, but he would hardly call them ‘friends’.

«I was supposed to be finishing my book by now but I haven’t written much yet», he said, with a sigh, looking at the water.

«I am sorry to know», Phryne replied, not knowing exactly what else to say that wouldn’t sound trite to someone who was wrestling with words himself. Elliott had gone through spells like that when they were together but he had always managed to channel his energy to other story if the one he had been working on so far was giving him  more trouble than what it warranted, returning to it once he had gotten some distance. Yet, even back then, during those three months, she had never figured out what could be of consolation to him. The best she could offer ended up being keeping him company while he wrote through the night after finally striking the magical moment that unlocked his imagination.

«I may have turned into every cliché of a writer», Elliott said in a tone more of sadness and frustration than bitterness. «Not even Nola’s relentless encouragement is working this time. I shut myself in my room and end up doodling circles in my notebook or writing aleatory words that do not make up a sentence. But I guess this is slightly better than when I just lay on my bed looking at the ceiling». Elliott took his case from the inside pocket of his jacket and picked up a cigarette that he proceeded to light. «Perhaps I should try the piano. William told me that Stravinsky played it often and may have even composed a thing or two there. Maybe the inspiration might seep through», he continued, expelling a puff of smoke.

«That’s interesting. I didn’t know that», she said. «I don’t mean to dispense advice, but perhaps you could incorporate something of this ambiance and these people into your story? I know it’s vague, but maybe it can give you a starting point. It all seems so rich and strife with things happening.»

«I don’t know», he shrugged. «They say that including people you know it’s always dangerous – friends may realise that they don’t like you much after all, family will think you blame them, and revisiting past lovers in one’s writing leads to a great deal of thinking and you may end up falling in love with them again.»

Phryne kept quiet and so did Elliott. None of them had predicted the conversation would take that path.

«Don’t worry. We are not at risk», he said, upon noticing the slight look of alarm on her face.  «Honestly», Elliott raised his hand as if he was taking an oath, the orange tip of his cigarette as a beacon, gazing at the sea again afterwards.

Phryne felt herself relax even if she hadn’t even grasped that she had tensed up.

«I know. And what about Diana?»

Their story had been a closed chapter in her life for years, but she still hoped that his unhappiness when it came to love didn’t result from not having recovered from their break up. While it had lasted, their relationship had been intense, it was true, and it hadn’t been easy for her either but she didn’t want to carry that burden. People fall out of love or even if they don’t – which was probably more accurate when it came to them, since they had never fought that much and he had never been abusive – there are things that speak louder than it, that exert such pressure that not all the promises and certainty of one’s feelings are enough to hold it together. He had appeared to move on with Diana Hamilton, the sophisticated and feisty American girl who shared an impulsive creative streak that she brought to the world in writing, painting, and dancing he had met five years ago at a book reading.

«We come in and out of each other’s lives. For the moment, we are on the latter part.»

« Is she in Paris?»

« I think so. She was when I left», replied Elliott, after another drag. Silence fell upon them again.

«Do you have any plans for after the Summer?»

He always brimmed with projects and ideas that he would abandon eventually but for the ones that might lead to a new opportunity to feign another beginning, as if he needed that to get himself going and move forward.

«Not particularly. I have been feeling rather disillusioned to be honest. That’s why you decided to go to Australia?», Elliott asked, facing her again.

«At first, I would say that it was to escape my family and try to solve my sister’s murder, but you may be right. I left Paris for London and tried to live there but something didn’t felt like it should and if four years hadn’t done the trick, I better give somewhere else a try, I reckoned», replied Phryne genuinely. «I rarely regret things, but going to Australia is something that I definitely don’t.»

«I am glad for you», Elliott said sincerely.

«And I am glad for me as well», Phryne said, her words followed by a grateful laugh that reverberated across the terrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Casino Municipal de Cannes was designed by the architect Camille Mari and inaugurated in January 1907. It was enlarged in 1919 and modernized in 1930 by the reconstruction of the ballroom. During the 70s it gave way to the current Palais des Festivals et des Congrès.  
> Given this, it was difficult to come by actual images of its inside and I had to make do with the little glimpses I was able to gather.  
> I’ve read that it had an «hall à l’italienne» that opened to the restaurant, the game rooms and the theatre.  
> This architecture style is recognisable by high-ceilings and in the use of arches and a sort of «patio»-like look. The only picture I’ve found of the hall in Cannes was extremely cropped and didn’t allow to see many details, so I based the one I present to you on the Casino Municipal in Nice not very far away and with which shared some architectural details, despite having been built before Cannes’.  
> I could only find one picture of the earlier decades of «Restaurant des Ambassadeurs», so I had to make due with what I could actually see. Most of the details I mention are as accurate as I could discern them (a couple of needed tweaks aside when I couldn’t), but I’m afraid can’t remember if I made up the wall colour or read something about that and forgot to write the source. I did change the chairs though and swapped the simpler ‘original’ for ones I saw on 1st dibs with the shell detail I thought would make for a nice touch. I hope you don’t mind it.  
> The look of the menus is based upon real ones, decorated with an illustration inside a circular shape. I’ve found one from 1927 and one from 1930, so let’s hope they would also looked like that in 1929.  
> I’ve also found only one picture of the bar. It had the tall ceilings and the sport panels and the dark furniture but that’s basically what it shows because it’s also a fairly cropped image. Given this, I have no idea where it was actually facing, what could be seen from it and where the actual bar counter and entrance stood and how they looked like.  
> I have no idea if the ballroom would have windows and doors facing the garden and the sea beyond, but I thought it would look good.  
> The Palm Beach Casino opened in Cannes in 1929, but I thought it was too new to send Phryne to and that it could hardly compete with the glamour conveyed by the original one.
> 
> The Fitzgeralds were actually in the region in July 1929. Hopefully, they would also be in August.
> 
> I wondered and wondered about whether I should put Elliott’s and Phryne’s relationship in, but it was one of the first things that ended up coming to me, not the possibility of having her question her feelings over Jack upon meeting or re-meeting a man, but this friendship and tenderness that remained between them. I hope you don’t find it a complete betrayal of her and that the way it is framed (and ended) can make up for some dissatisfaction it may arise. The truth is book Phryne may be in her 20s – if I’m not mistaken – so there’s isn’t a huge gap left between her Paris times and going to Australia, but since I only know TV Phryne and picture her like Essie in her glorious 40s, sometimes I feel that too much time stretch from leaving René and going to Australia. Maybe I’m just shoehorning Elliott and Phryne’s connection into a bit that has nothing to do with the doubts above, but it’s one of the reasons I think why it dawned on me.
> 
> I’m once again sorry for the long notes. I hope you liked the actual chapter enough so they aren’t too bothersome. 
> 
> Thank you for your time reading it all and for your kind feedback so far. Fingers’ crossed the story’s quality hasn't slid yet and it is still worthy of such enthusiasm and words.
> 
> Quick reminder that the next chapter is scheduled to be posted tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

_You can’t believe this is the end. «No one is so old as to think that he cannot live one more year», you would quote if your brain wasn’t so muddled by confusion, your jaw hadn’t suddenly locked, you hadn’t found yourself grinning out of your muscles’- but not your own- volition. You want to move but you can’t; your feet and your legs are starting to get so tense it seems they will snap at any second. The glass you had once held is now on the floor as the convulsions climb up your body, seizing your hands, and your arms, and your torso. You can’t believe this is the end but you know it. Confusion has turned to panic, now that your chest seems to be shrinking. You yearn to breathe and you breathe, but it’s getting difficult and your heart rushes. You want to call for help but you can’t even conjure a strangled breathy sound. The murmur of the sea below and beyond will be the last thing you hear. That and the sound of your shoes scrapping against the gravel your feet as your legs shake them. You can’t believe this is the end, but the pain that possesses you can’t be anything else. You will die out in the open, underneath a lovely summer sky, your impending demise unacknowledged by none of the many people in the house nearby. You had a plentiful and opulent dinner but you feel weak. The spasms, the arrhythmia, the breathing have quickly drained you. But you try to breathe again. And you are able to, even if your throat doesn’t seem yours anymore and your back is starting to curl like the edges of an old book. A hand. There is a hand on your shoulder. It isn’t yours because yours are spread in front of you, your fingers as rigid as the tines of a pitchfork. Your body burns but now there’s also a flash of hope amid that fire. You try to turn around, to look at the face of this Samaritan that will call a doctor and put an end to this unbearable, stiff hell that engulfs you, but you can’t. Your neck is tightly upright and any motion is impossible. Grateful tears prickle your eyes. You can’t believe this is the end but you know it and yet you are still surprised when the pain comes from the outside in instead of the inside out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: The quote is from the «On Old Age» essay by Cicero. Thank you for still reading my story.


	6. Chapter 6

Phryne had just let her shawl slip onto the back of the chair by the desk when she heard quick and unexpected steps coming up the stairs. Nola said that she would get something to eat before going to bed but there hadn’t passed time enough for it and those feet were too light to be Elliott’s, who had, in fact, retired to his room soon after Phryne had to hers.

Whoever was knocking on a nearby door was trying to make the taps as soft as possible, but their efforts weren’t enough to conceal the urgency that ruled them.

This wasn’t the first time that doors had been lightly opened and closed in the night, but it wasn’t usually accompanied by that hushed sense of intensity.

Miss Fisher unlocked her door and drew it away from the frame enough to see Mathilde talking hurriedly to Una in a low tone of voice. The maid had her uniform on, but she wasn’t wearing her cap and her hair was weaved in a plait tied with a bit of crude fabric, as if she had been suddenly pushed out of bed.

Due to the distance and the fact that they were practically talking in whispers, « Montgomery» and «garden» were the few words Phryne had managed to gather, but judging by the sudden drop in Una’s features whatever the girl had conveyed was very worrisome.

 Phryne’s certainty that something was amiss deepened when Mathilde darted towards the stairs with her mistress in tow, Una holding the hem of her aqua chinoiserie dressing gown to the side so she wouldn’t trip on it, and she decided to follow them.

«What happened?», Phryne asked when she caught up to the American despite how quickly the other woman was walking down the stairs, choosing to do so instead of shouting from afar so not to startle her or the other guests, who didn’t appear to have become aware of the commotion.

Una’s face was awash in shock, but she moved with haste, the soles of her slippers hitting each step like thunder. Her eyes were wide open, clearly on the verge of tears, yet she talked quickly.

«M. Duval found William unconscious by a bench at the end of the garden. Mathilde came to call the doctor and to fetch me», she said, unable to avoid the quiver of her chin now and covering her mouth with her free hand.

Phryne threw an arm around her and instructed Mathilde in French as she walked, so there wouldn’t be any possibility of misunderstandings:

«Bring a proper torch and find Mlle Murrow, I believe she’s somewhere on the ground floor, and join us outside, please.»

Like Phryne, Nola had also driven ambulances during the war and picked up some medical knowledge that might be of use. Up to that night, William appeared to be in perfect health and any help could be important while they waited for the physician.

Una ran to the door, but Miss Fisher stopped her to collect a candlestick from a console in the living room and a matchbook courtesy of some hotel out of the bowl by the front door. While there was plenty of moonlight, Phryne preferred to have some further illumination until Mathilde returned with the torch.

They sprinted outside, turned  and ran alongside the front of the house, ahead to the right edge of the garden, as fast as they could without letting their heels get stuck on the gravel, following Monsieur Duval’s calls of ‘Ici! Ici!’.

Phryne didn’t voice it but if William was indeed unconscious (and who knew for how long he had been like that), the doctor that was supposed to arrive soon could probably do little for a patient in such conditions and she wondered if they should risk transporting him in any of their motorcars to Antibes, the closest hospital, about 5 kms away, hoping that someone might be there to help them. What had happened to all the advances in emergency medicine learnt during the war? Even in 1929, sudden illness at night was almost as complicated to handle as it had been fifty years ago. But she was not being practical. First, they must assess his state to the best of their abilities.

«I couldn’t sleep and decided to take a stroll, see if it would help when I found him», Monsieur Duval said in French when they arrived, stepping back. «I’m afraid it’s serious», he continued, but the women probably didn’t listen to his words, busy with assisting William.

His imposing figure was laying on the floor, his abdomen and legs turned to the ground, his back curved, his arms stiffly at his side and his hands open as if to hold on to something sizeable. He was wearing the dark suit he had put on for dinner and the back of his hair was well combed as he had intended it to before the evening begun.

Una fell to her knees as she reached her husband, never minding the sharp edges of the gravel digging into her skin.

«William? Darling, can you hear me? William, wake up», she said and repeated, taking his head between her hands and getting her face close to his to try to figure out if he was breathing.

Miss Fisher crouched next to them and quickly lit the candles and illuminated William’s face, holding the candlestick carefully to avoid having any wax falling on him.

His eyes were closed but a pained expression contorted his face and a morbid smile slightly opened his mouth. There was something down his chin that she couldn’t identify immediately but that didn’t seem like dry saliva. Una continued to call his name and to hold him, panic growing inside her with every repetition of his name and of terms of endearment that kept yielding no response, her tone of voice getting increasingly desperate after each attempt.

«Help me turn him», she pleaded to Phryne.

«Let’s wait for the doctor, it’s best, in case there’s some damage to his neck», she said, truly believing that moving him wouldn’t be the wisest thing to do. Una’s hands lifting his head off the ground had been problematic enough if that was indeed the situation. «Just be sure that he can’t choke on his saliva or any possible vomit», she added, despite the fact that he was so still. If it were to happen, it had probably taken place already, Phryne thought, but not letting that thought show in her demeanour.

Phryne swept the space over William with the candle. There were some gashes on the back of his coat, surrounded by dark large stains that she hadn’t been able to see until that moment. She discreetly looked for a pulse even if the ashen colour on William’s face and the stiff and cold hand by her side was leading her to believe that she would find none. And so it was. She signalled for M. Duval to come close.

«Go to the house and call the police. Make as little fuss as possible, but please find out if Mathilde has gotten a hold of Mlle Murrow please.»

The butler did as directed, leaving the two women behind.

«William! William! Please don’t leave me», Una said, tears pouring down her face now, and pushing his shoulder back so she could take a better look at him, bending to kiss his forehead. 

Phryne saw now that a string of blood had ran down his left cheek and that his shirt was dirty, but she couldn’t avoid breaking the news further. Miss Fisher dug a small hole in the middle of the gravel with her hand instead and placed the candlestick on the floor, slightly away from when they were.

«I’m sorry, but I’m afraid William is dead», she said, as gently as she could, holding Una’s arms from the back.

«It can’t be, it can’t be. He’s just unconscious», Una replied without even looking at Phryne, her eyes glued to her husband’s face, «You can hear me, can’t you? Squeeze my hand, dear.»

«I’m afraid there’s no pulse and he’s already starting to get cold and  is quite stiff», Phryne said, trying to pull Una away. His wife hadn’t probably noticed any of these things because of the breeze coming from the sea and her sense of despair that couldn’t conceive any other outcome other than that, if she tried hard enough, her husband would wake up.

«He’s only unconscious, he’s only unconscious, I know he’s only unconscious», Una muttered, every word getting blurred with the growing realisation of how vain and empty those utterances were in light of such evidence and collapsing onto herself like an old folding chair that had been suddenly kicked. Phryne pulled her into her arms and tried to soothe her by rubbing her back as Una cried in such profound sobs that shook them both while holding on to William’s left hand.

«I am so sorry, Una, so very sorry», Phryne said as her eyes started to sting with tears too. She had always liked William, his good-natured and amiable personality, but her brain had fully acknowledged what happened and she was now trying to make sense of what she saw in front of her. She still didn’t know much, but she had little doubt that foul play had been involved; instinctively looking for the signs had gotten ingrained in her over the last year and she couldn’t help doing it anymore.

«William…», Una said weakly, her grasp on her husband’s hand growing limp.

Miss Fisher took a deep breath, her heart smothered by consternation but also compassion for the woman sobbing on her shoulder. Phryne had had to blink; she couldn’t contain the tears anymore, her vision was getting too blurry, and she let silent drops fall down her face.

But Una’s despair also raised a pang that might seem selfish in such circumstances, callous to a certain degree even, considering that William was laying on the floor ahead, shrouded in moonlight, a dark mound like a dark whale that had been dragged ashore. _Jack_. His name had started to circle around in Phryne’s head since she had witnessed the situation unravel and Una shatter as the actual scope of events had revealed itself and turned a significant part her world upside down. _Jack._ She had never dwelt much on the danger associated with his job as she didn’t when she was chasing criminals herself, but, even with the telegraph, news took a lot of time to get from Australia and that risk suddenly bit her like an unforeseen attack by an animal hidden in the shadows. _Jack._ Phryne pictured the letter she had written to him earlier that day being picked at the end of the afternoon from the post-box by the casino at Juan Les Pins where she had dropped it, being passed around some hands, some shelves, and some boxes and taken to Marseille or Nice some other port by motorcar or train and put in a bag aboard a cargo ship that would take it across the Mediterranean and the Suez Canal and then the Indian Ocean until it reached Melbourne and passed around many hands and many boxes and many shelves and  was dispatched in the satchel carried by Mr. Morris,  the postman whose route took him to  the City South Station at around 8.49am each morning to deliver parcels and envelopes which were sorted out and assigned to their recipients and that Hugh would put right in the middle of Jack’s desk so he could see them as soon as he walked into his office to start his day by going through them with that letter opener that looked quite unhewn with its carved wooden handle and rusty spots spattered on the blade but from which Jack would never part because his father had made it and given it to him when he had gone to the Police Academy. _Jack._ What if there were no parcels or envelopes to sort out and put right in the middle of his desk to be immediately seen and to be opened with the seemingly unhewn letter opener because he was gone and her message had gotten there too late? _Jack._ Phryne swallowed the scream that threatened to erupt from her throat. She understood now what he had felt when he had thought she had died instead of Gerty.

Nola came running out of the house, Mathilde following in her heels with a torch in each hand and Joséphine a little bit behind, simultaneously angel and spectre in her diaphanous white dressing gown, white night dress, and the loose curls around her face.

The three women came to a halt once they got a clearer view of the desolating image. Nola’s chin flickered and she felt her eyes sting with tears, but even if she spread her shawl around herself and crossed it over her chest as if to comfort herself, she walked towards them making the least sound possible. Mathilde straightened her back and ran her hand over her nose, threading the gravel carefully until she was near Phryne and gave her the torches.

«Merci», she thanked.

«M. Duval is by the gate waiting for Dr. Hubert», the maid said, stepping back a little.

«Since we are all shocked and it’s getting a bit cold, could you please get some tea and something to eat ready in the kitchen? There’s no need to set the dining table», said Phryne, both because she truly thought it but also because she wanted to have as little people around as she could while she still had some chance to analyse the surroundings.

Mathilde nodded and left for the house, walking by a stunned Joséphine that still hadn’t moved, not even to wipe the tears that ran down her cheeks.

Nola crouched by Una and put a hand on her friend’s back.

«William…», she said, her words trailing off when Una couldn’t contain another sob, her quivering body supported by the two women on each side.

«I know», said Nola, meaning to add that she was sorry but unable to do so now.

Phryne held Miss Murrow’s shoulder too, trying to convey some comfort.

«Nola, come here, please», Phryne called in a low tone of voice so she wouldn’t disturb Una, even if she probably wouldn’t notice it in the haze of her grief.

Nola raised her head, looked at Phryne and did as asked, but before she crouched again, she glanced at the disconsolate Joséphine, who had started meanwhile to dry her tears with the sleeve of her peignoir.  When Joséphine drew her hand away from her face, nodded at Nola in what was supposed to be as a reassuring gesture as it could be in such circumstances.

«I think William was murdered and I need your help», Phryne whispered.

«Murdered?», Nola’s eyes widened in shock, but she didn’t raise her tone.

«Stabbed, I’m afraid, but I need to take a look before this turns into a circus», Phryne said.

Nola nodded. Rarely at loss of what to say, she felt she could do little more than listen to her friend’s instructions now. It was both wondrous and frightening that such an ordinary night could have taken such surreal and tragic course.

«But everyone liked him», she said eventually.

«I’m afraid there is at least one person who didn’t», Phryne said, compassionately. «Or maybe it was a robbery», she offered, trying to soften the blow a little and to voice another alternative that had sprung in her mind.

Nola didn’t seem particularly settled though, and turned her head away from Phryne, closing her eyes afterwards.  She then swooped in and took Miss Fisher’s place once she got up. When she was by Una, Nola unwrapped her shawl and draped it over the other woman’s back as well, letting her friend’s head fall onto her shoulder, crying in silence.

Phryne got up and lit the torch. At first, she would concentrate her attention on the area of the bench nearby. William seemed to have been sitting on it before his death and maybe she could find something that might explain what had happened, but so far nothing seemed out of order. She guessed that he had probably sat facing the sea, the pine woods to his right, as she had seen him do sometimes at the end of the day before getting home to change. Those were some of the few moments when Phryne saw him by himself and quiet. It deepened her heartbreak to think that someone had taken advantage of such personal minutes to kill him. She had yet to account for the precise number of stab wounds but Phryne believed she had distinguished at least four, which could indicate a deep private motivation and a degree of violence that surprised her nevertheless even if always expecting something more was a trait she was prone to adopt.

Phryne recognised that the gravel floor practically ruled out any useable shoe prints, but that it could help conceal small things like fibres and hairs, so she must pay the utmost attention to everything around her.

At first sight, the shrub on the left of the bench didn’t seem to have been disturbed, but a sudden gleam by its roots made Phryne crouch. She found a tumbler she recognised as being part of the drinking set available in the library, on the charming little table between two leather armchairs William and Una had bought at an antiques shop in Antibes back then when they had started to decorate Chateau Ondine.

The glass was laying on its side, as if left behind in a hurry, but still contained a slither of whiskey. Lacking gloves, Phryne took the hem of her dress and straightened it carefully, touching it as least as possible, not willing to spoil any prints or other pieces of evidence that might be on it.

She then turned her attention to the bench itself, an uncomplicated structure with a long slab and two stumpy feet, set in a space between the shrub and the woods that lined the property to the sides and which helped give it that secluded feeling that had seemed to hold such appeal just some hours ago.

Phryne threaded cautiously, moving the light slowly over and around the bench. Blood pearled the grey seat. The spots on the edge were blurred, probably due to William’s effort to move, whether to seek help or to confront his attacker. Give the apparent extent of William’s injuries, she believed that the drops might have fallen from the murder weapon as the assassin had drawn it away from his back to stab him once and once again in another part.

Miss Fisher walked to the other side of the bench and crouched, few centimetres away from William’s feet to take a better look at the blood. They seemed to have started to dry up already. That timeline would be particularly difficult to pin down. There were no witnesses and the specific seaside weather conditions wouldn’t make the task any easier.

There were some more blood drops on the floor, but it stopped even before where Willam’s body laid, which cemented Phryne’s impression that they didn’t come from his wounds. She got to her feet and swept the area with the torch again, but nothing else caught her attention now.

Una had been silently crying, but her sighs and sobs had turned into wails as if her body couldn’t contain her sense of bereavement and it had to let it out somehow. They were pierced with despair, primal, feral, deep despair and hopelessness that could lead one to believe that it was ripping her apart like cracks alongside a vase, sounding clearer and even higher in the still silence of the night.

Nola rubbed her friend’s back and murmured some words Phryne couldn’t get into Una’s hair but to no avail.

Elliott come through the main door, in a confused rush, still in his dinner clothes but sans jacket nor bowtie and with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up. He walked fast towards where Joséphine was standing, but didn’t take a step further beyond that imaginary line.

«No, no, no», uttered Elliot, his legs suddenly turned into coiling springs under him and clamping his right hand over his mouth, the shock swaying the light inebriation left from the casino away from him.

The Van Astens and Pernot joined them soon after, already in their nightclothes. The men in satin robes (Philip’s dark blue worn over stripped pyjamas, Alphonse’s burgundy, worn over a pair of cotton bottoms) and Caroline in a light blue matching set of dressing and night gown, their hairstyles no longer neat and presentable, but with the traces of having been in bed instead.

Caroline’s eyes were filled with tears and she buried her face in Philip’s chest. He put an arm around her shaking shoulders and kept quiet, his visage locked in a closed off expression and then quickly laid against her hair, trying to control what he was feeling.

«Mon Dieu», said Alphonse, followed by a gasp.

Pavlov came running from behind them. He might have been deeply asleep when the first persons passed by, but the prolonged commotion had roused him. The dog darted to William’s hand, but since he hadn’t gotten the pets he expected, he ran to Una, as he usually did when his master denied him attention. Nola scooped him up and held him between herself and Una, but Mrs. Montgomery didn’t reach immediately for the dog, doing so timidly when he started to lick her hands, crying into his red fur.

Everybody stood still as her sobs rippled through the wide garden. The air was thick with grief and the smell of flowers nauseated Phryne. Its freshness seemed to have been replaced by a certain mustiness and the flicker of the candlelight over their faces lead a somewhat funereal air to the proceedings.

 _Where’s the police?,_ Phryne wondered. It seemed that M. Duval had been sent for them a long time ago, but she couldn’t be sure. Heavy circumstances always seemed to bog over minutes and stretch them into hours.

After some time in quietness, they were pulled from their dazed bewilderment by the sound of approaching vehicles up the driveway on the left of the house. The motorcars stopped at some point and doors opening and closing were heard as were feet on the gravel for a while, before the men made it past the hedgerow and were in full view. M. Duval came ahead with two gendarmes, a man in a three-piece suit holding a sort of bag, and two other gendarmes carrying a gurney.

Most of the bystanders arranged themselves. Elliott got to his feet and shook his head as if it would dissipate his tears, Caroline and Joséphine wiped their faces with their hands, Philip brushed his eyelids with his fingertips but still avoided looking at the crime scene, and Alphonse straightened his back. Nola looked to her right over Una’s head but did nothing else.

Phryne turned to the source of the sound and made the light of the torch face the gravel in a way that still illuminated the scene without dazzling anyone with its brightness but expecting that it would allow her to assess the men that would be investigating the case alongside her (unbeknownst to them, that was.)

The gendarme who seemed to be in charge lead the way with a torch in his hand while he was listening to the butler’s words and asking him some questions as the uniformed man that followed in their steps attempted to take some notes on a small pad with an attentive yet somewhat insecure look on his face.

But the talk came to a halt when the men reached the area where the guests had gathered around William’s body like participants in a macabre bonfire.

The gendarme took the kepi off his head,  held it against his stomach, and pointed his torch to mid-distance, its glimmer trembling on the leather of his boots, of his leggings, and of the diagonal strap and of the belt holding his jacket in place.

«Mesdames et messieurs, je suis le Maréchal des Logis-chef Gaillard», he said, introducing himself, seemingly too aware of how distasteful ‘Good evening’ could sound. He had a deep, reassuring voice that conveyed undisputed competence, an impression aided by his high and broad forehead and his straight nose, even if he wasn’t as tall as Phryne had expected and seemed rather slender. 

Some mourners nodded, some mumbled ‘Bonsoir’, continuing to feel adrift regarding what to do next.

«Comprennez-vous le Français?», he asked. «I understand some English, but I don’t speak very much», Gaillard continued, still in French.

«Some of us are French and most of the others have a good grasp on the language», Phryne said in his native tongue, taking upon herself to step up and do something else.

«Very well, I will speak in French then», Gaillard said. «May I ask your name, mademoiselle?», he said, addressing Phryne.

«Phryne Fisher, a friend of the family and lady detective ». She had wondered whether she should omit this detail at first, but then reconsidered: attempt truthfulness first and then change her tactic if it didn’t work.

« That’s interesting», said Gaillard, honesty coating his words instead of the condescension that usually met that disclosure, which surprised Phryne.

« I frequently cooperate with the Police in Australia, in fact, and maybe I could be of help»,

«Perhaps», he replied, sounding mostly non-committal, but Miss Fisher believed that eventually he might become more pliable. Swiftly moving on to how protocol would develop forward, he continued: «Everything seems to point to M. Montgomery’s death, but it needs to be confirmed by a doctor, something Dr Hubert will promptly do. Maybe Madame Montgomery and other people would like to wait inside?»

Phryne looked around. No one seemed willing to move, including Una, who, still holding Pavlov to her chest, got up, aided by Nola.

«I would prefer to stay, if I can», Una said in French, her voice small but decided.

«I present no obstacle and I believe Dr Hubert will not object», acquiesced Gaillard, turning then to call the man with a wave of his hand.

The physician seemed to have been caught by surprise by the gendarme’s request. He had been called to Chateau Ondine and was on his way when he noticed that the ambulance was following him. At the door, he had been briefly filled in about what they knew and he understood that there was probably nothing he could do now, but had decided to walk with them nevertheless. He quickly recovered his posture and came closer, permitting the presence of whoever wanted to stay nearby, but asking them to stand back, so he and the gendarmes could move more freely. They would need space to work.

«Merci», thanked Una, walking to where her friends stood. She put her hand on Philip’s right elbow. He might not have been close with his stepfather, but they had been family in a way. Philip nodded, seemingly touched with her gesture. Elliott offered to take Pavlov, a proposition she accepted since the dog was feeling too heavy for her weakened arms, and Caroline and Joséphine held her hands reassuringly for a moment before Una moved to the edge of the group, Nola still by her side.

The man nodded and walked towards the body while Phryne moved aside to where Gaillard and his subordinate were. It was only when she was already across the yard that she realized that she had placed herself as she would have done while in Australia investigating a murder. For a brief moment, she wondered if she should join the other guests, but she eventually decided to stay put.

Dr Hubert, in his fifties and with a roundish build, crouched down and took a stethoscope from his bag, which was being held by one of the gendarmes so it wouldn’t be on the floor and risk disturbing the crime scene. Trying to carefully avoid the bloodstains and the cuts that laid underneath, he kept asking the uniformed man holding the torch to point it to different spots before he put the chest piece to William’s back. He then turned William a little to the side so he could access his torso and repeated the process.

Once he deemed it over, he made the body lie as close as it had done, got up and nodded to Gaillard.

«I am terribly sorry to confirm that M. Montgomery has died», Dr. Hubert said, in a professional yet empathic tone.

This conclusion wasn’t unexpected, obviously, but hearing it voiced this officially seemed to transform it from a confusing moment to a terrible certainty.  Nola hugged Una again and the other people appeared to have gotten breathless and that they could be knocked aside by the breeze at any moment.

The gendarme responsible for note-taking turned his watch towards the beam of the closest torch and wrote down the time.

Dr. Hubert approached Gaillard and said in a low tone that Phryne was able to discern that, to start with, the man seemed to have been stabbed repeatedly. _No news then_ , Miss Fisher couldn’t avoid thinking. The night was growing repetitive and that sameness heightened the emotions going through her. She needed to do something, to unleash the tension that was gathering in her muscles.

«If you wish you can go inside and I will let you know when we have finished», said Gaillard.

«You may not be feeling like it, but I asked Mathilde to prepare something to eat and to drink», informed Phryne, in case they felt that they needed some sort of excuse to leave, as they seemed to, since she had noticed that, but for slight changes of weight and tugging of sleeves, most people hadn’t moved.

«Would you like to have something?», Nola asked Una. «Or to sit only?»

«I would like to sit here », she replied, her words sending Joséphine and Caroline away to fetch a chair with Alphonse and Philip in their heels.

Armed with a torch and with the kepi back on his head , Gaillard started to analyse the body, dictating his observations for the other gendarme to write down. Phryne stood nearby, gathering her own facts over his shoulder, taking advantage from the fact that he hadn’t yet asked her to leave. She added two more stab wounds to the four she had noticed before, roughly-edged gashes cut into his skin in a way to make him bleed profusely or reaching William’s kidneys, lungs, and one she believed might have even hit his heart. They were deep, cementing her conviction that they seemed to have been inflicted mercilessly, in a fit of rage or madness or of some other overpowering emotion or thought.

             «Help me turn him around, Lapin», Gaillard asked his subordinate after he had finished relaying all the details of the body and of a little area to its right he found important to include in his report.

             Lapin, a young man in his mid-twenties with a demeanour that reminded Phryne so much of Hugh it as heart-warming as it was eerie, stored his notebook and pencil in a pocket and got to William’s feet while Gaillard stood by his shoulders.

«On my count», his superior said to ready both of them. Lapin bent. «One, two, three». Gaillard pushed William’s shoulder while Lapin exerted pressure in the ankles.

Una, already seated in a wooden chair from the sitting room, let out a cry upon the sight of William facing up. Phryne herself shuddered. Having seen bloodied bits of his shirt before, she hadn’t been exactly caught unaware but it was a distressing message nevertheless, even for a seasoned professional as she was.

Gaillard respectfully took William’s right wrist and made his arm lay by his side instead of letting it across his chest, as it was.

Una’s cry intensified again and Nola held her. The others stood by, dealing with their own shocked reactions, Philip hiding his eyes on his wife’s hair once again upon such sight.

It was difficult to ascertain if there were injuries slicing the torso or if all the blood had ran down his chin after having filled out his mouth due to the stab wounds.

Phryne had already come across such scenarios, but the thought made a shiver ran up and down her. It had to be one of the worst ways to die, smothered by something that kept you alive. But she couldn’t and wouldn’t dwell on that dreadfulness, as the gendarme was searching William’s pockets.

They were empty but for a matchbook.

«Did M. Montgomery smoke?», Gaillard asked Phryne, raising the little cardboard box.

«From now and then, but he usually took cigarettes from the box in the living room or when it was brought outside».

«And money?»

«I saw him take out a money clip to pay for things while in town, but I don’t know if he carried it on himself at home. It’s probably best to ask Madame Montgomery.»

Despite Una’s tears sobs, Phryne quickly went to her and came back to Gaillard with a response.

«He only carried money when he went outside the house.»

Lapin’s pencil scratched his notebook as he wrote down this fact, the gesture becoming more urgent as Gaillard pointed his torch to the deceased’s mouth.

There was blood as expected, but there was also a great deal of saliva gathered over it and abrasions around his lips.

Gaillard continued to analyse William’s body and but when he raised to his feet, he wasn’t as cooperative as his somewhat open tone of voice had lead Phryne to believe.

«I am sure you will understand why, Mlle Fisher, but I am not sure you should be involved in the investigation in this capacity», he said, in a slightly lower tone of voice apparently not to cause a scene but with a new steeliness to it.

«Until I am clear from any suspicion, you mean?», Phryne said, holding her own as well, reading Gaillard from behind all the politeness in which he had wrapped his words.

«I can see that you are an intelligent woman, but I trust you would do the same if we were in Australia and our roles were reversed, Mademoiselle», the gendarme continued, as professional as anyone could be.

«Would your professional and experienced judgement be clouded if you were in such a situation?», Phryne asked, willing to make him change his standing, even if stepping aside for a while would never mean her complete withdrawal from the case. Finding herself in a peripheral position would only make her more alert and thorough and she was such most of the time already.

«It might», confessed Gaillard to her astonishment, « if a friend had been murdered at the house where I was spending the summer. I might indeed be biased even without meaning to».

«Fair enough, for now», Phryne replied, not meaning to bring more suffering upon her friends that evening. «Let it be known and that I spent the evening at the Casino in Cannes. Mlle and M. Murrow can confirm it as can many employees of the establishment. In fact, we had arrived little over an hour ago or so. I had barely entered my room when I was drawn out by the commotion of Madame Montgomery and Mathilde, the maid, coming downstairs», she said, moving to the edge of the pinewoods. He might not allow her to peak over his shoulder anymore or be willing to listen to her considerations, but he couldn’t forbid her from staying there. Getting shunned by officers of the law was nothing new to Phryne but, maybe because she had glimpsed a chance of alliance with Gaillard, she was more offended than usual.

Gaillard and Lapin threaded carefully around the body and then to the bench, illuminating the perimeter of their search with diligence. Phryne’s eyes followed them retracing the steps she had already taken and remarking on what she had already seen: the trail of blood, the crimson drops, the glass by the shrub. Lapin produced a small stout jar and a folded brown envelope from his pockets, certainly stored there so they wouldn’t have to walk back to the motorcar in case they had found any piece of evidence.

The Marechal des Logis-Chef laid the torch on the floor by his side, fetched a pair of dark leather gloves out of his own pockets and poured the rest of the whiskey to the container , screwing it shut tightly afterwards. He then picked up the glass and put it into the envelope, doing the same with the flask.            

«Will this investigation be conducted by the two of you alone?», Phryne asked when he got to his feet, not sure about the proper way to address him; a look at his insignias revealed that his grade was akin to staff sergeant but she had never had to interact with a ‘Marechal des Logis-chef’. «I don’t doubt your competence and skill to do your job but the lack of clear motive, witnesses, and even evidence seems to lead to a very complex investigation».

«We will proceed with an analysis of the scene before taking Monsieur Montgomery’s remains to Antibes. On behalf of the Gendarmerie Nationale, I offer our condolences and we are aware that it’s late and this has been a very distressing evening, but I would have to ask some questions prior to our leave», he said.

«I understand», Phryne heard Una say, after having moved closer exactly with that purpose. «I will help as much as I can».

«Could he conduct those interviews inside?», Gaillard asked, Phryne’s role as liaison between the investigative team and those people interrupted for the moment.

Una said she would go first, but before turning to enter the house, she said to Phryne:

«I doubt you can go much further, but please don’t leave him, Phryne. I know it’s a lot to ask, but please don’t leave him». Her chin resumed quivering and her tears grew bigger and more frequent with her plea.

«I won’t», promised Phryne, without adding any words, particularly touched. She wouldn’t, even without that request, after having decided she would accompany the delivery to the morgue ever since she had deemed William’s death a murder.

Still trembling, but reassured, Una went indoors, mournful but dignified, with Nola by her side.

«Would you lend me your car?», Phryne asked Elliott, who was still holding Pavlov in his arms, who, as if sensing the graveness of what was going on and not meaning to disturb, remained quiet.

«Obviously. I’ll get it ready for you», he replied promptly.

«Please wait until I come back. I have to fetch my shawl and my handbag».

Elliott nodded, understanding that she meant him to replace her observing the gendarmes laying William onto the gurney.

«If it’s not too much of a burden, that is», Phryne said, looking at him and putting a hand on the inside of his elbow.

«I would stay even if you hadn’t asked», he assured her, «but thank you».

Phryne nodded back and left.

She paused in the hall. Nola was sitting on one of the sofas in the sitting room, smoking a cigarette and staring at an indistinct spot on the sea ahead, her feet tucked under her. Miss Fisher walked to her and called:

«Nola?»

But Miss Murrow didn’t move.

«Nola?», Phryne repeated, taking another step closer. Her friend looked at her this time, red-eyed.

It would be pointless to ask how she was. All the strength that had risen in her to support Una seemed to have vanished now that she was alone. Phryne sat next to her friend and hugged her in silence.

«I am going to Antibes and I need you to keep an eye on things while I am away», Phryne asked after that pause.

Despite not wanting to believe that someone in the house could have killed their host, the circumstances forced her to be judicious with her trust. So far, Phryne felt that Nola would be her first ally, not only because they had been friends for so long, but also due to the fact that they had been together for most of the evening. It was true that she hadn’t come up right away but she had seemed genuinely shocked with the news of William’s demise and even with the caveat that people might not know their friends as well as they believed to after all, Phryne had faith in knowing Nola to a degree that allowed her to be certain of her reaction, the fact that her friend was prone to hide her feelings notwithstanding. In Melbourne, Phryne had her reliable and trustworthy network, here she would have to believe her instinct. She had already believed in Elliott and she would believe in Nola too.

«What do you want me to do?», her friend asked, wiping her eyes with her hands and taking a drag of her cigarette.

« I have no idea if they are going to cord off the crime scene so if they don’t, I need you to. Ask Mathilde for string and M. Duval for stakes from the kitchen garden. And we need to cover it… to protect it from the sea salt and breeze.»

«Old sheets over the string, maybe?», suggested Nola.

« Try that. I think it might work.»

«I’ll do that as soon as possible. I may stay with Una for a while more but I’m sure Caroline and Joséphine won’t mind sitting with her afterwards. She should probably try to get some sleep. What else?»

«Keep an eye on things and on people. I don’t know what to look for exactly yet, but I think we should».

« This is so awful», Nola said, covering her mouth with her hand, «I know it’s redundant to note it, but this is so awful and seems so senseless.»

« It always does », Phryne said, putting her hand on Nola’s shoulder. «Where’s Una?», she asked after an instant of quietness.

«In the library with Gaillard and the other gendarme. They asked me to wait here».

«I better go get my things. Are you certain you will be all right? I mean, given the circumstances».

«Go. Don’t worry. It will probably take time, but telephone if there’s any news.»

«I will.»

Phryne and Nola hugged again and smiled encouragingly before raising from the sofa.

«Oh, my cigarette», she heard Nola say as she climbed the stairs, not stopping to take in the details of the figures adorning it for the first time.

The house was quiet, the only sound heard being the lulling waves, barging in through the gaping room doors and the gaping windows beyond, left so in the hurry that had swept up its residents. Phryne didn’t remember it ever being so and the tip tip tip of her shoes on the stone floor seemed to stiffen that noiselessness even more.

Conscious that she couldn’t lose any more time or she might risk not keeping track of the ambulance, Phryne got the shawl she had disposed of earlier in what had been a joyful bright past and picked her handbag from the vanity. She was already by the door when she went to the bedside table on the right and took her pistol out of the first drawer, considering it a pertinent precaution to take. One never knows.

When she returned to where Elliott was, the gendarmes were covering William’s face with a white sheet.

«Why did they take so long?», she asked, albeit oddly relived for arriving in that moment.

«I don’t know exactly. They needed some time to place the gurney on the floor. Maybe they were afraid of ruining the crime scene. I will go get you the car», he said, leaving with Pavlov still in his arms.

Phryne followed the gendarmes as they carried William to the ambulance after waving the other goodbye. The motorcar was already purring when Phryne got to it.

«Thank you again», she said to Elliot, lightly patting the dog’s head.

«No problem. Take care of yourself. Do you want me to go with you?»

«There’s no need. Go get some rest. You need it», she raised to her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

She got into the vehicle and drove behind the ambulance, a sombre and unassuming procession following a man who had rarely been this alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To paraphrase from the Gerald Murphy quote that I borrowed for the title: the age of innocence it's over, its beauty and freedom.
> 
> Thank you for reading (both this and the previous chapter - I'm sorry if I horrified you with that one -) and I'm sorry if I killed one of your favourite characters but someone had to die. I hope this shift doesn't prevent you from wanting to read further.
> 
> Historical notes: Gerald Murphy wasn't murdered in the garden of his house in 1929. He died in East Hampton in 1964.
> 
> Phryne's consideration about the state of emergency medicine isn't something I made up. From what I read, the huge advancements that had come in the midst of war took quite some time to trickle down to civil life.
> 
> It was challenging to pinpoint who would investigate William's murder due to jurisdictions and history itself, but I hope I'm not too far off in choosing the Gendarmerie Nationale to do that, even if nowadays the Police Nationale is also represented in Antibes (bigger than Juan Les Pins, which still doesn't have a station because those two places are considered as one including in some administrative issues, like this).
> 
> The Gendarmerie Nationale is a military force with an «area of responsibility that includes smaller towns and rural areas while the Police Nationale - a civilian force - is in charge of cities and large towns». (Thank you Wikipedia). The Spanish Guardia Civil and the Italian Carabinieri are two other examples of military institutions involved in 'civil' protection and police-work.
> 
> Their purview falls into three categories: Administrative Police (includes, maintenance of 'law and order', traffic, protection duties, immediate assistance, Judicial Police (penal law enforcement and crime investigation), and Military and Defense missions.
> 
> Given that the area where Antibes/Juan Les Pins is, I think the gendarmes would probably be the ones called in 1929 about such occurrence and who would be in charge of the investigation.
> 
> Please don't quote me on Gendarmerie protocol and procedure. What you read is the result of my own research sprinkled with what I've read in books and seen on TV. I hope I'm not so far off it prevents you from focusing on this story.
> 
> I would like to use this space to thank everyone who commented on the previous chapters, even if I replied to each of them.
> 
> The next chapter will be posted next week.


	7. Chapter 7

_Today you seek silence. You aren't always like this, but people are allowed to change, aren't they? Others laughed and you laughed, others talked and you talked, but it was nothing more than the reflection of their own excitement or politeness or whatever fueled their actions. Yet, there's something you need to do first. You have tried to delay it, but there is no further escape possible. For some, it would be a frightfully easy thing to do, but you have to come to terms with it. You take a deep breath and run your hand over your face. You are tired and even slightly bored, you would say. But one does what one has to do and you have to do this. You will keep being asked things if you don't. The murmur of the sea lulls you but you can't falter. You feel the urge to slump and drag your feet. «It's bad for posture», you can hear your mother chastise your sister. You always respected your mother and you are not five so you don't. Your fingers curl around the handle and after a small initial stab, the blade you hold tears what's on its way without much resistance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter and for your feedback to the previous ones.  
> A quick reminder that a new chapter will be up tomorrow. I'm sorry if this posting schedule isn't very practical, but I feel that since my 'own' times are so irregular, it's easier to guarantee I have something up three times a week instead of seven, particularly on those days where the chapter has historical details I believe require some explanatory notes that take some time to write.


	8. Chapter 8

The wind ruffled Phryne's hair, swaying it against her face. The dark strands tickled her skin like pine needles and she twitched her nose to brush the feeling off.

The way ahead dipped and turned and her lungs were filled with the sea air blown in from nearby, her nose burning a little when she breathed.

Phryne looked to her left. There he was. Hatless, which always made for an amazed sight, despite their meetings at his office and the nightcaps at her house, where he presented himself with his head bare and she wanted to disrupt the carefully pomaded hairstyle with her fingers. Phryne smiled. He was smiling back and it was even more of a wondrous view. Relaxed and carefree (well, almost), basking in the sensation of accomplishment and a job well done, now that they had closed the case.

In the open train cars behind, someone was speaking in a language akin to French, loose words Phryne couldn't make sense of.

She straightened her head and focused her gaze. There he was. The hat, the suit, the trench coat; always a welcome sight. His back towards her, a silhouette cut against a wooden counter set in front of a beige wall. _You came_ , she could feel that utterance dawning upon her lips.

_Juan Les Pins. Hier Soir. Capitaine._

Why would someone say those words while riding the scenic railway in Melbourne? Phryne shivered, jolted back to life, her eyes wide open now. Whoever that was, he wasn't Jack. Yes, there was the trench coat, the suit, and the hat, but he had greying hair and she was at the reception of the morgue, having darted inside at 8.00am, when it had opened to the public, after a sleepless night in Elliott's motorcar with her eyes glued to the iron gates of the hospital, her mind racing with the fact that they hadn't found a murder weapon yet and her hand on her trusted pearl-handled gun, hidden in the folds of her shawl.

A round metal clock on the wall told her it was 8.27am. The gendarme manning the counter hadn't been able to inform her about the hour of William's autopsy beyond the expectation that it might take place during that day and she had decided to wait, her investigative streak mixed with the promise she had made to Una. She felt awake as she observed the workings of the reception, the people coming in and out, the task distribution, the gendarme that came from the station to drop correspondence that the medical examiners might need, but the long night had caught up with her and that bit of rest had been convenient.

«Excuse me», she said in French, having gotten up from the wooden chair on which she had been sitting, addressing the man in the trench-coat.« Bonjour. Are you the officer in charge of the investigation of William Montgomery's death, last night, in Juan Les Pins?».

«And you are? I am afraid I missed your name, Madame», the man said, touching the brim of his hat. Now that she was right in front of him, she could see that he was slightly taller than Jack but was equally reed-like. A few years older than them, with green eyes and square chin and jaw, he looked handsome and distinguished.

«Phryne Fisher, lady detective. I am investigating M. Montgomery's demise. He was murdered in his own garden».

« Bonjour, Mlle Fisher. Thank you for coming but I am not allowed to discuss ongoing cases with strangers to the Gendarmerie whether I am involved in them or not.»

He had a warm, pleasant voice that Phryne would have appreciated in other occasion, but now those same qualities seemed to underline how little he desired her presence there.

«I don't share my information unnecessarily either, but I thought we might collaborate. I would guess that you haven't seen M. Montgomery's body yet but I have».

He might not have disclosed his involvement, but Phryne's instinct lead her to believe that the gendarmes would not be discussing that murder if there wasn't anything else to it and she decided to pressure him a little. This time though, she didn't reveal she knew the victim, his family and friends, and was living in his house, lending it a more professional veneer. Phryne was aware that she wouldn't be able to conceal it forever, but she hoped that it would give her some advantage while she did.« Monsieur…?»

«Capitaine Jacques Rousseau», he replied. «I am sure your remark is supposed to be enticing to the officer in charge but I can guarantee you the Gendarmerie will devote the utmost attention and effort to the case in hand», his tone veered towards that condescension that made Phryne's skin itch (or more like burn, actually). «And now, Mlle Fisher, if you excuse me, my presence is needed somewhere else».

Rousseau touched the brim of his hat again and walked past Phryne to enter a double wooden door that lead to the private section of the morgue.

«Certainly», she replied flatly and yet not even attempting to conceal the false smile that rose to her face nor turning to follow Rousseau with her gaze as he left.

«Is there an estimate for when M. Montgomery's body will be released so Mme Montgomery may start the funeral arrangements?»

Phryne doubted the young gendarme would give in after that conversation, yet she asked it nevertheless, not only to draw her next step but also to not come home emptyhanded, as little comforting as such date could be.

«I can't say, I am sorry. Madame Montgomery will be notified through the official channels once there is.»

«Thank you», Phryne said, arranging the shawl around her shoulders and exiting the building afterwards.

A man in his thirties wearing a pinstripe suit and with a photographic camera hanging from his shoulder was coming towards the morgue. Phryne saw him because they would likely cross paths at some point, but he looked at her in that way many men did, draping over her their interest but also the certainty that she would return it with equal favour, measuring how she would. She kept her look blank, not keen on giving him any further ground, but she still discerned that there was some other layer below, that kind of curiosity rooted in the impression that we have met someone or have at least heard about them but the doubt about whether they are indeed that person.

Phryne walked by quietly and without quickening her step, even if she really wanted to do so in a way. They hadn't exchanged a word, but she was nearly sure he was a journalist, already sniffling out the Montgomery case. While other people might have died the previous night and other investigations were underway, it wasn't that wild of a guess. Of course the press would be all over it with all their energy. Even if their pages didn't mostly report small thefts and municipal dealings, they would surely jump at the chance to cover a story that seemed out of an Agatha Christie book. A wealthy foreigner stabbed to death in the garden of his own mansion in a famous seaside resort? It basically wrote itself.

«Hell», Phryne muttered under her breath as she walked to Elliott's motorcar, suddenly realising that due to her attire, she could have unconsciously given the man a clue. She trusted she would be able to figure out what had happened, but she didn't need journalists adding their nosiness to her concerns. Phryne acknowledged her own, but that was a different matter. She had tried to join forces with the men of the law yet their refusal had changed the game. But she would play it. She would play it and she would win it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Due to research and the fact that the Gendarmerie Nationale is a military organization, Rousseau would probably wear a uniform as well, given that even higher-ranked officers do so but I had had the idea of him being attired in a similar way to Jack's and was too weak to change it. This probably gives me away as a hack and I apologise if it undoes (?) your idea that I'm a good writer but I hope you can forgive me and are still interested in this story nevertheless.
> 
> I have no idea if the morgue would be located in the hospital in Antibes because my research didn't yield much, but since it does happen quite often, I hope you don't find it too outlandish. The description of the reception was made up and procedure was partly made up, partly based on what I came across in other articles, books, tv shows, films, etc.
> 
> Thank you again for your time reading and and/or commenting this story. It does mean a lot to me.


	9. Chapter 9

_Something is brimming inside you. That certain giddiness that makes you pleasantly high-headed but that may easily turn into recklessness. It's a thin line, you know it's a thin line, and that it may vanish even before you notice it. For now it's the giddiness that you can feel tugging on every muscle of your body, an antsy tingling rushing under your skin. You rub your thumbs over the other fingers' tips. You pace around trying to set yourself. You feel warm but you are almost sure it emanates from within you and not from the weather. You get distracted and your breath quickens. You shake your head. You would never admit it but in your gut you know you have to get this right on the first try. You will lose your nerve otherwise and it had been so hard to make it top this point. The murmur of the sea seems to urge you on. You oblige. The first strike is perfect and you smile._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the (small) last chapter of this week and are looking forward to read what's coming up next.
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued support and I hope you keep enjoying the story as it goes.
> 
> Posting shall resume next Tuesday. :)


	10. Chapter 10

Phryne had tried to get a hold of Gaillard at the Gendarmerie station, one street over and attempt to shake something else out of him, but he wasn't there and she returned to Chateau Ondine, longing for a piece of toast and a change of clothes into something more practical.

The gate was closed and she pulled the cord on the left, making a bell ring both outside the house and inside the kitchen.

Monsieur Duval appeared, seeming even more sombre than usual, conscious of his duties and role from the top of his immaculately combed head to the tip of his polished shoes.

«Mlle Fisher», he said, letting her in.

While he latched the gate, Phryne parked the car and waited for him to resume his way back. No one seemed to be in sight.

«M. Duval», she greeted, «Where's everyone?»

«Upstairs, Madame. Mathilde has already served coffee in their rooms but no one has come for breakfast so far», he replied in French.

Phryne nodded.

« The gate is to remain locked and only people allowed by me can come in. I ask you to inform me even if the gendarmes are the ones calling in. I imagine you can see the entrance from behind that bush without revealing your presence?»

«I believe so, Madame», the butler said, looking at the place Phryne had mentioned and listening carefully to her words.

«If the bell rings, that's where you shall stand to check who it is. If I haven't allowed them in, you can return inside without a further word. I am sure such conduct is a bit of a trial to a competent butler such as yourself but I trust you understand the reason, M. Duval», Phryne said, choosing to withhold the hunch about the press for the moment.

«I will do as instructed, Madame.»

«Thank you.»

The butler bent his neck down in a little bow and walked inside while Phryne made her way to the tent-like structure Nola had set up over the crime scene. Apparently she had manage to find green tarpaulin instead of sheets, so Phryne hadn't been able to notice the scope of the actual area from afar. It sprawled from 2 metres to the side of the bush under which Phryne had found the whiskey tumbler to the edge of the woods and from about 4 metres ahead of the bench to 4 metres behind where William had lain.

Phryne stood for a moment, trying to take in how she would analyse the scene without letting the tarpaulin crumble to the floor. She ended up deciding to wrap it in sections, following the height of the rectangle established. She did so painstakingly but the light of the day didn't reveal anything except the grisliness of William's blood all over the light-coloured gravel and she covered the perimeter again, still cautious, to be sure that she hadn't missed any possible piece of evidence, no matter how small. She would be extremely piqued if the gendarmes found something she hadn't seen. One thing was for Jack to be the one doing so because he would act as a team player instead of brandishing it in her face whilst calling out how unsuitable she was for the task; giving that pleasure to Gaillard or Rousseau was a completely different game.

A sigh left her body as she considered possible routes threaded by the killer. The walls around the house were tall but by no means impossible to be climbed, if one was truly set on it, which she was starting to believe the murderer had been. Yes, William's valuables weren't missing but why would someone go to so much trouble over some francs and a watch? He was a wealthy man but she had never seen him carry a fistful of bills, not even when they went to the casinos. If someone was already there, why not rob that first victim and then move inside? Chateau Ondine wasn't the sort of place one would stumble upon by accident, particularly since Una and William had removed the exact sign that had first drawn their interest, wishing to protect their haven from unrequired attention. Whoever had decided to carry out that crime would have had to do some research, which as shallow as it might have been, would yield information enough about the house owners to let one gather that there would be plenty of money, jewellery, and other valuables inside to be had. Maybe it had been their intention but they had been surprised by William's presence at that hour and had killed him accidentally or out of despair? Phryne ruled this highly unlikely. According to her experience, he had been stabbed with too much violence and too many times for it to be a fortuitous situation. And what about the murder weapon? Even while Phryne was occupied postulating what might have happened, the fact that nothing of the kind had been retrieved never slipped out of her mind completely. It had been taken to avoid identification, perhaps, but Phryne doubted that whether that killing had been premeditated or not someone would hang on to it for long, risking exposure.

She glanced at her surroundings, trying to pace her thoughts, which were reeling through her mind at such speed she was starting to feel actually dizzy.

The morning light cast over the garden illuminated it, but couldn't completely obliterate the desolation that seemed to waft from the well-tended flowerbeds and luscious shrubs, even those away from the tarpaulin.

Phryne closed her eyes. Her last meal had taken place a long time ago and she was taken over by a certain physical weariness that made her tremble. She threw a last look over the tarpaulin and walked towards the house, making her way through the main door, which M. Duval had left open for her.

Apart from the faint sound of a pot being handled in the kitchen, the house was silent and Phryne was struck anew by how unnatural that was, how much it needed voices, laughs, and music pulsating inside it, echoing across its halls and against its walls to be as pleasant, exciting, and spirited as it had been envisioned by its owners.

As she climbed the stairs, once again failing to summon the energy needed to revel in the details of the mural, Phryne heard a door and steps tapping lightly above.

«Miss Fisher!», a surprised voice said.

«Mrs Van Asten», greeted Phryne, stopping.

Caroline was wearing a black silk dress that looked slightly too formal for daytime with its delicate little lace sleeves, the contrast deepened by the way her usually bright complexion had dulled and her hair had been coiled at the nape of her neck but not iron waved, and her jewellery was composed only by small golden earrings and her wedding band.

«Is there any news?», she asked after a small pause, as if she had had to remember what she was supposed to next, her hand tightly holding the thin iron rail.

«Not much, unfortunately. Just vague official jargon. Do you know where's Mrs Montgomery?»

«In her room. Miss Murrow has just taken over », her enunciation as distinguished as always but with a slight break in her voice.

Phryne went up another step.

«How are you, Mrs Van Asten?»

«My headache is better, I am afraid, and the rest shall pass with time. I thought about trying to eat something and to have a tray served for Philip upstairs. They had had their issues, but he's absolutely shattered. I believe shock was the only reason why he didn't faint upon the sight of so much blood. The poor man loses it with a papercut », she replied, straightening her back.

«Caroline…», Phryne said, trying to coax her to shed that approach that put her emotions in the background even if she was clearly attempting not to cry.

The younger woman took a deep breath, her brown eyes glistening with tears.

«I am sorry…», she said, covering her mouth with her hand.

«Don't be, cry as much as you need», Phryne reassured her, going up yet another step and holding Caroline in her arms.

She cried for a few minutes, before she drew apart from Phryne, wiping her face with her hands.

Phryne fetched a handkerchief from her handbag and gave it to her.

«I am sorry», Caroline repeated. «Well, I guess this is a difficult habit to break», she continued, her features revealing the weak shadow of a smile.

Phryne smiled back at her. «I am sure you will get the hang of it.»

Caroline lowered her head.

« I feel like I am floating. Dr Hubert gave something to sleep to whoever asked for it and now I doubt it was the right thing to do, but I was so tired and shaken».

«We all are. It was indeed quite a shock».

«You are likely in want for some rest after this long night and I shall not trouble you any further», Caroline said, giving Phryne's handkerchief back, «Thank you very much, Miss Fisher.»

«Anytime», Phryne replied, somewhat moved by how young and fragile Caroline looked in her funereal clothes.

«You are very brave, Miss Fisher», Caroline said as she walked down the stairs, «in the midst of such a horrifying situation, you stepped ahead and did something. »

«Thank you, Mrs Van Asten. But you have been doing your best to keep Mrs Montgomery as comfortable as she can be and keeping her company and that's important as well».

Caroline lowered her head and resumed her way.

Phryne moved up and knocked lightly on Una's door. She heard someone get up from a chair on the other side and Nola's face appeared between the door ajar.

«Come in», she said in a low tone of voice.

She was wearing a navy day dress with a burgundy sash around her hips and a pair of matching leather shoes stood by the chair she had just vacated.

Even conscious about the shallowness of her observation, the clear attempts at mourning attire made Phryne feel garish in her evening dress and she tightened the wrap around herself once again, as if to conceal the shaming garment.

The room was larger than Phryne's and looked light and inviting with its wallpaper rendered with small-scale white flowers on a powder-blue background. The décor felt expensive yet without making a fuss about it. White cotton drapes semi-covered two large windows overlooking the sea, letting daylight in and revealing simple but elegant light-brown walnut furniture: a large armoire on the right, on the same wall as the door, a chest of drawers across the bed. Two comfortable-looking armchairs upholstered in white were set in front of one of the windows, providing a cosy spot to watch the sea from and talk, and a vanity table set with Una's sparse beauty products and half-opened letters ahead of the other, near the valet stand on which William used to put his clothes at the end of the day.

There were photographs on the table tops: Una and William's wedding day, of them on the beach, taken at their apartment in Paris or on the yacht he kept in America, of them with friends in the garden of Chateau Ondine or in Paris or New York. In some, they were smiling broadly, but even in the ones they weren't that deep sense of standing exactly where they wanted to and with the people they wanted to still shone on their faces.

While its presence was more subdued than in the rest of the house, art was displayed in the room as expected, in a simple pencil sketch of a landscape hung over the dresser and a portrait in black ink broad strokes of a woman Phryne guessed was Una was on the wall between the windows.

The real Una was laying on a large four-poster bed in front of Phryne, with Pavlov by the slippers on the floor, his little muscles tensing when he looked up to Miss Fisher, as if the guardian of an imaginary ring of fire set around this Brünnhilde. She was asleep, a particular layer of weariness underneath the temporary alleviation of rest on her face, keeping to her side of the bed out of the habit built over the last seven years, the other pristinely waiting for William to lay on.

«Dr Hubert gave her something to sleep but I expect it will wear off soon», murmured Nola, her own features strewn with tiredness and the weight of a poorly slept night, what had happened, and what was yet to come.

«I know nothing else, but I believe I met the officer in charge of the investigation above Gaillard», Phryne said.

« It was to be counted on, wasn't it?» Nola said, «And the policeman?»

«Capitaine Jacques Rousseau seems a bit of an idiot but I trust the Gendarmerie wouldn't assign an unskilled detective for such a high-profile case, because this will be a high-profile case, no doubt», replied Phryne, choosing to disclose this bit of information. Sooner or later she would have to gather everyone and ask them to refrain from talking to the press and to many people about the murder anyway.

«I just came to see how you two were. I ran into Caroline on the stairs», Phryne continued.

«She is trying to hold herself together but she is a wreck. Yet, who isn't?»

«'Gutting' is the only word I can think of. That and adrift. I am not sure how much the gendarmes took away from the interviews», said Nola.

«Were they that tiresome?»

«Not exactly. They just posed questions regarding our whereabouts during the evening and their estimated time-frame for the crime, but you know how these things are. Details seem to have slipped out of our minds and I would say that people were quite frightful about the fact that no one had been arrested. Gaillard left the other gendarme behind just in case, but even so.»

«We will catch them», Phryne said, encompassing herself among the law people. Of course she would prefer to be the one to find the murderer as revenge for all the pain inflicted on those persons, but she wouldn't completely resent the gendarmes if they were the ones managing to do so.

Nola kept silent because she didn't want to saddle her friend with some assurance that might turn into a burden later, but Phryne knew she trusted her.

«I will change, eat something, and I will join you later», Phryne said.

«Thank you, but there's no need. You must be exhausted and I can handle things around here. Maybe later», said Nola.

«Alright then», acquiesced Phryne. «Thank you», she said, putting a hand on Nola's shoulder.

**xxx**

«Mlle Fisher? Mademoiselle?»

Phryne opened her eyes slowly, her mind still heavy with the last traces of the interrupted slumber.

Mathilde's worried face hovered above her field of vision.

«I am sorry to bother you, but the Gendarmes are at the gate, Mademoiselle.»

«What time is this?», said Miss Fisher, getting up from her bed quickly and darting towards the mirror to smooth down her hair.

« About 2 o'clock in the afternoon, Mademoiselle».

«Tell M. Duval that I'll be downstairs in a minute».

«Oui, Mademoiselle», Mathilde said, taking leave.

After a bath and changing into silk black trousers and tunic and a short jacket in the same colour with white geometric motifs around the cuffs, Phryne had felt so drained, she had sat in her bed for a while to gather energy enough to go to the kitchen but now she was late. She took a deep breath, put on her red lipstick and a long necklace with a moss agate oval pendant at the end. She always cared about her appearance and took pride in it, but now it was a question of control and she must appear collected and in charge.

Rousseau and Gaillard were standing in the hall accompanied by M. Duval, waiting with their hats in their hands when Phryne came down the stairs.

«Messieurs», she said, her words followed by a nod as a greeting and a sign for the butler that he might go back to his tasks.

«Mlle Fisher, how unsurprising to find you here», said Rousseau in French, «and so at home, I would say».

«I told you this morning that I am investigating M. Montgomery's murder so I wouldn't consider it unsurprising either if I were in your place, Capitaine».

«Yet you might come across as uncooperative since both the Maréchal des Logis-Chef and I have been here instead off at the crime scene. To untrained eyes, I mean», Rousseau said without missing a beat, punctuating his words with a smirk Phryne wanted to slap off his face. Nearby, Gaillard appeared impassive, but Phryne detected a certain tension in the way his fingers curled around his kepi, held against his side like she had seen him do already.

«Over the years, I've found that untrained yes can see many things that escape those already shaped by experience and expectations. But I shan't keep you from the crime scene any longer», Phryne said, exiting the house through the main door with the gendarmes following close behind.

«After last night's thorough analysis carried out by the gendarmerie, the area was covered to protect it from the elements or any contamination that might happened until your visit», she informed. «I can assure you that it was all done with the utmost care and attention».

«I am not familiar with Police protocols in Australia, but here in France this», Rousseau said, pointing at the tarpaulin with his finger, « could fall under obstruction of justice and even destruction, alteration, falsification or suppression of evidence, and I am sure that with such knowledge as yours you are aware of the consequences to the course of the investigation itself as well as to those involved. I trust you wouldn't wish to have to face your friends after compromising the search and arrest of this criminal, if it proves to be one, to such degree».

«Could any of you, gentlemen, pick up the other side?», Phryne asked, holding up the right corner of the tarpaulin, not willing to dignify Rousseau's inadmissible words with a reply.

The Capitaine nodded, signalling to Gaillard to do so and act as Phryne bid.

«You can return to your affairs now, Mlle Fisher», said Rousseau once the area was uncovered.

«Thank you, but I couldn't be more in the midst of them. Unless I actually stepped on the blood on the floor and I trust neither of us would want that – It would certainly fall under either destruction, alteration, falsification or suppression of evidence », replied Phryne with a steely grace that left Rousseau no other alternative beyond turning his attention towards the crimson spots and go over Gaillard's conclusions from the previous night, which made the gendarme speak for the first time since they had gotten there.

They finished processing the scene and began going through the garden without uttering a single word in Phryne's direction, pointing in silence but taking notes on their little notepads. Rousseau might want to pretend she wasn't there (Gaillard seemed more mortified than anything, judging by the way he tried to compose his features in an apologising expression when his gaze crossed Miss Fisher's), but she never let him forget that she was very much present - keeping up with their fast pace and asking if the glass of whiskey had been analysed yet, if these probes had yielded any results so far. Phryne was fully aware that it was too early for such conclusions, but since she couldn't envision any circumstances that might make Rousseau like her, riling him up felt more satisfactory than what it should and maybe she could derive some leads from his reaction.

When they climbed up the stairs from the rock beach, Phryne, Gaillard, and Rousseau were surprised by Una walking Pavlov. At first, she didn't seem to have noticed them, her movements slower than usual and her eyes on the tip of her shoes, apparently trying to exclude anything but that from her mind.

«Una», Phryne called in a tone she hoped would be high enough for the other woman to hear but without startling her.

She stopped walking and raised her head, unveiling red eyes, grief-stricken features and a sallow tint which seemed to be even more pronounced in contrast with her hair. She had put on some outdoors shoes, but was wearing her blue chinoiserie dressing gown over a long satin chemise.

Phryne walked towards her, stopping before she got very close and letting Una establish the way they would interact. Miss Fisher couldn't deny some apprehension at seeing Una out like that by herself so soon, but people grieve differently and she trusted that if no one was keeping her company it was because she had been the one asking them not to and whoever had acquiesced, Nola probably, was nearby in some way.

«I couldn't stay inside anymore», Una said, her voice breaking in the end and her eyes welling up with tears.

Phryne nodded, at loss of words to say.

«Pavlov needed the walk and I needed to be here, to see the place where it all happened to know that it's true even if I know it already».

Her tears developed into crying and Phryne took another step. Since Una hadn't drawn away, she hugged her, careful not to squash Pavlov, who upon his mistress' pain, was on his hinder legs and with his paws on her leg, as if to hug her as well.

The gendarmes were still by the wooden stairs, seemingly waiting for Una to compose herself, but Phryne didn't rush her.

«I needed to walk by the garden today or I would never leave the house», explained Una.

«There's no need to justify anything», Phryne said.

«Why are the Gendarmes here?», Una asked, wiping her eyes with one hand and petting Pavlov's head with the other.

«To analyse the crime scene in the daylight».

«Well, help them if you can, will you…»

«Of course. I have been shadowing them for hours, but I haven't found anything yet nor do I know when William's body will be released. I'm sorry».

«There's no rush anymore, isn't it so?»

«I am so sorry. For everything», Phryne said gravely, meaning each word.

«Thank you», Una said after a pause, walking past Phryne and away into the garden, Pavlov trotting alongside her.

«Do you happen to know where Mme Montgomery is going? I would like to have a word with her», said Rousseau, who had meanwhile come to Phryne with Gaillard in tow.

«No, I'm afraid I don't», she replied, still shaken from the encounter.

«Is there someone who could provide such information? I understand that there are some people staying at the house?», he insisted.

«I believe she will not go far, but hasn't she suffered enough these two days? The Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard has already interviewed her and since there's no new information, I can't think of a reason to trouble her with more questions right away», Phryne said.

Rousseau looked squarely at her but, before he could say anything, Miss Fisher continued:

«Feel free to come back once the gendarmerie has further information, obviously».

«Your care for your friend would touch even the stoniest of hearts, Madame. I may not ask anything of Mme Montgomery in this moment but, while I trust my men's work, I would still like to interview the other houseguests. We could start with you, Mlle Fisher. I was told you were at the Casino in Cannes for the evening and had just returned home when M. Montgomery was found but many things can happen in a small window of time, as I am sure your experience has helped you gather».

«I have found that experience can't be boiled down to skill alone. It also includes attitude and how one carries themselves in the world and with and around others. I, for instance, prize honesty so I told everything to the Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard last night: I came home with Mlle and M. Murrow and then went straight to my room. I heard the commotion and exited the room. I caught up with Mme Montgomery on the stairs. There are two people who can vouch for me and I believe they're both inside, Capitaine».

Rousseau's demeanour was getting too repetitive to Phryne's taste and she was doing her best to keep being cordial. She liked to consider herself a polite and educated woman, but some people seem to have the undesirable ability to overrule those boundaries and feel as annoying as it can hardly be believed.

«I would like to talk to Mlle and M. Murrow then», he said.

Phryne managed to turn the exasperated sigh that left her into something that could pass for a normal breath. At first, she had reckoned that the captain was attempting to cover up the fact that he didn't have much to work from, but as their (thankfully few) interactions took place, Phryne was nearly sure he was also set on belittling her as much as he could.

She walked towards the open French windows that lead to the living room and entered, Rousseau standing behind as if all her actions were a nuisance.

«Joséphine», Phryne greeted the figure wearing a dark blue crepe dress who was sitting at the end of one of the sofas, her head laying against the palm of her hand, and an abandoned cup of tea in the table in front of her seat.

She looked at Phryne and did a little nod, but didn't move more than that, her stunned look even more pronounced by that expressiveness that worked so well on screen: lips pursed with the effort to contain the tears brimming in her downcast eyes. She had put her make-up on, but devoid of the magnetism that drew people towards her inescapably, it rung more of an armour than of an embellishment.

«There you are», said Phryne in English to Nola, who was by the last window on her right, fidgeting with the beads of her necklace as she observed Una, who had settled on one of the lounging chairs by the pool with Pavlov in her arms.

«The Capitaine would like to go over my alibi with you», she continued, now in French, when her friend turned away from the glass. Miss Fisher usually handled herself with more finesse than that so surprise transcendung weariness across Nola's face. «Nola», she said, walking towards her, « you are already acquainted with the Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard and now I present you the Capitaine Jacques Rousseau of the Gendarmerie Nationale. Capitaine, this is Mlle Nola Murrow, a dear friend and guest of the Montgomerys».

Aunt Prudence would probably be close to a fit if she had witnessed such evidence of disrespect for the proper etiquette, but Phryne also wanted to believe that her relative would not only applaud her if she had met the man in question but also put Rousseau in his rightful place as a conceited individual who hid his remarks behind excessive politeness and who was letting his work be clouded by personal preferences.

«Bonjour, Capitaine», Nola replied, « We can talk in the study. We won't be disturbed there. Joséphine, would you mind?», she said.

«Of course not», answered the other woman, getting up from the sofa and walking towards the window.

«This way, please», Nola said, gesturing with her hand in the direction of the hallway, where the entrance to the study was located, and disappearing into the room with the two lawmen.

«I will be right back».

Phryne left Joséphine by the window and carefully took to standing close by the study door, hoping she would be able to hear something of what was happening on the other side. She wasn't afraid of anything Nola might say nor of Rousseau taking advantage of her mourning; while Miss Murrow wasn't her usual cheery self that didn't mean she was less sharp for that. Phryne saw it as a chance to at least glimpse the Gendarmerie's course of action. The captain could hypothetically try to use their bond against them in some way, but she wanted to believe that he had enough self-respect to be professional and conduct the investigation accordingly.

At first, Rousseau asked Nola questions about her friendship with Phryne in French, such as where and when they had met. Miss Fisher couldn't help but roll her eyes, even if unsure if he was keeping up the façade or was genuinely considering her as a possible suspect.

He then moved to the Montgomerys.

«I met them in Paris, about 8 years ago amongst the American expatriates. We tend to feel drawn to each other».

«I see», Rousseau answered, laconically.

«And how was your relationship with them?»

«Una is one of my best friends and so was William», Nola replied with sharp certainty.

«You have already spoken to the Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard but the other tasks that I couldn't help but to carry out today prevented me from reading his report so far so…. Could you go over last night for me, please?»

«I went to the Casino in Cannes with Mlle Fisher and my brother. We had dinner and spent the evening there. We came back around two o'clock in the morning. They went upstairs right away but I stayed to eat something in the kitchen. I believed Mathilde, the maid, and M. Duval were already in bed but then I was alerted by Mathilde of what had happened and that Mlle Fisher requested my presence».

«Any especial reason why she would send for you in particular?»

«I worked alongside nurses in the war, I believe she would deem my skills useful in dealing with William's injuries before she was made aware that he had died».

«Was he alive still when Mlle Fisher and Mme Montgomery got to him?»

«I don't believe so. I guess that the delay in realising the fact was due to the understandably heightened emotion in the moment».

«And when M. Duval found him?»

«I couldn't say. When I was sent for, I was told that M. Montgomery was unconscious».

« Perhaps you could enlighten me about something, Mlle Murrow… From what I understand, the staff quarters are in the attic and the access is done through the staircase in the kitchen. According to the little information I did have the chance to read, M. Duval found M. Montgomery and came inside to fetch Mlle Brunet, who was already in her room. If you were in the kitchen how come you didn't meet there or saw Mlle Brunet when she returned to the house to warn Mme Montgomery?»

In spite of the doubts stated, Rousseau was keeping his tone rather light yet professional. On the other side of the door, Phryne breathed again at last. She didn't want to, but there was a certain mastery in his approach that lead her back to the moment she had pondered that someone inside the house might have been the murderer but had excluded Nola from this possibility, relying on their friendship and trusting enough to ask for her help. But she was getting ahead of herself, Phryne thought, chastising herself for being so brusque when she knew better than that. Nola hadn't replied yet and valid reasons could explain the discrepancies pointed out by Rousseau.

«I went to the cellar looking for something to drink», Nola said in a neutral tone.

«The door is in the kitchen, is it not?»

«Yes, but it must be closed even if someone is inside in order to keep the environment needed to preserve the wines. There are some rarities there that require very particular conditions so they don't get spoiled», she explained, still in a fairly neutral manner.

«You were at the casino, where your check shows the considerable amount of champagne consumed and then you came home and searched for more alcoholic beverages. I wonder if your recollections are that…clear in light of this».

The gendarme continued using that irritating light tone and Phryne could sense Nola's effort not to yell at him when she said:

«I am willing to help, Capitaine Rousseau, but I do not appreciate what you are implying».

«It wouldn't be first time an inebriated foreigner would bring their personal issues here and cause harm or at least trouble, Mlle Murrow. I am sure you are familiar with an instance or two where that happened».

Phryne clenched her fists. Under a professional lens, she duly understood his point and despite her particular regard for him she commended him on the fact that he didn't shy away from asking questions some less scrupulous lawmen might chose not to voice to people who might yield influence near their superiors in case they knew them, but the blatant bias was impairing that appreciation.

«My habits didn't prevent me from helping as I could and the Maréchal des Logis-Chef may have noticed that I was fully capable of answering his questions as well as aiding Mme Montgomery through some of the hardest moments in her life and as I continue doing, I may add».

Nola's tone had shifted. It was still polite, but a certain coldness lurked underneath that veneer, letting him know that she would not tolerate the shadow Rousseau was meaning to cast over her actions and her character.

«Could you please call your M. Murrow? I would like to have a word with him as well.»

«My brother is very affected by M. Montgomery's death and he is resting now», Nola said, her voice even more inflexible now.

«I understand, but I must talk to him as soon as possible», that light tone become almost unbearably pressing.

«I will see if it will be possible », Nola replied.

To an ear untrained in her states of mind, the precise way in how she delivered those words might indicate that she would acquiesce to such request without further question, but Phryne noticed a distinct stain in her voice and in how she hadn't insisted harder on another moment for that interview, even considering the profession of her interlocutors and the situation that had brought them there.

Silence took over the room for a moment and Phryne got even closer to the door, but the quietness was followed by the sound of chairs scratching the floor and she walked away. She had no qualms about doing it, but she would never give Rousseau the pleasure of catching her eavesdropping in such child-like fashion.

Nola came out of the room and looked at Phryne, who was now standing a few steps to the right, in a place where she couldn't be seen from inside the study, eagerly waiting for her friend.

«They want to talk to Elliott».

«I know».

«The problem is that I don't think he's fit to talk to them», Nola said, lowering her voice and pulling Phryne further away from the door and towards the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned a couple of notes ago, I don't know if the morgue would be in the hospital, but since I took that into my story, I better be coherent.
> 
> Antibes's hospital is located somewhere else now, but in 1874, it settled in Rue Fersen, after relocating and changing services and the people it tended to a couple of times at least and was run by a religious order. From what I could gather, it maintained this location until the 1930s, moving then another time to Fontonne, a bit outside Antibes, leaving behind the narrow streets and troubling facilities it occupied, growing in size and services as time as goes by. In the 40s, the members of the Trinitarian Order give away to civil staff.
> 
> Two chapters ago, I wrote that Phryne had spent the night in Elliott's car looking at the gates of the hospital based upon a picture I found in the current hospital's site, but I don't know if it dates back from the one in Rue de Fersen or Fontonne and I couldn't find actual information about how it looked back then. Nowadays, I estimate it has given way to a school, but it was difficult to find out what changes happened to the building itself beyond modernization. I hope you don't mind these tweaks.
> 
> I couldn't find the location of the Gendarmerie back in the 1920s, so I took its current place on Rue Géneral Vandenberg. This street is really one street away from Rue Fersen and can easily be done on foot.
> 
> The crimes and description mention are part of the French Law, as they do in many countries. I translated them as best as I could for this.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for your feedback. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Your enthusiasm never fails to bring a smile to my face.
> 
> Allow me a quick reminder that there's a new chapter to be posted tomorrow.


	11. Chapter 11

_You can barely keep the thought out of your head. Intense, engulfing and, some would say, sinful (but you no longer believe in such things) it is constantly and steadily nudging you as it simmers in your blood. You feel restless. Your steps get hurried but you take a deep breath and force yourself to slow down. Your quick pace can easily denounce you, it can draw attention and, very possibly, questions to which you would prefer not having to answer. The need for secrecy is understandable, necessary even, you acknowledge, but there is a part of you that wishes to be able to act on it without having to hide in the dark. But you wait. You wait because you were once the one who could hardly bear the notion of it and its consequences. Yes, because there are deeply affecting consequences to be aware of. Fatal, if you let out the wrong word, address the wrong person, lose the wrong letter, fail to act accordingly. Many won’t understand, many claim they can’t understand but those who do and partake in such do so unreservedly. You are over those qualms now, despite all the voices you hear condemning your actions. Well, perhaps not completely over since you are aware of the danger being caught beyond that protective circle may entail. You may consider yourself quite free, but you are not stupid. Yet, for now it’s difficult not to get swept up in the strength of that warm, liquid feeling that sprawls inside our chest. The murmur of the sea reminds you of the heart that will beat so close to yours. Not its rhythm exactly, but of its urgency. You are shaking with anticipation as each step brings you closer. You don’t say a word. You put a hand on a shoulder and smile._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this new chapter. I hope you enjoyed it as well as what's coming up next.
> 
> Thank you also for your kind feedback on the previous part.
> 
> After this little chapter, you'll have something longer to read tomorrow to close the posting week. :)


	12. Chapter 12

«He is completely hung-over and I doubt he can stand on his feet, let alone talk to the gendarmes».

Nola ran her hands over her face. Now that she was across her friend, Phryne could see the effect of that pressure weighing over her features.

«Last night he was obviously crushed first but minimally functional as he was given things to do, like holding Pavlov, readying the motorcar for you or even talking to Gaillard, but afterwards he was running on habit. After I got Una in bed, I went to check on him and he was sitting in his bedroom, smoking in silence with this dazed look on his face. I didn't press him to talk or to do anything really, I just sat there smoking too until I had to go back to Una's side. Joséphine was there but I couldn't keep her for too long, in case she wanted to go to Alphonse. I told him he should try to sleep and he said that yes, he should. But this morning, when I went to see how he was doing, it turns out that he emptied a bottle of gin he had hidden somewhere. I tried to shy the thought away, but deep in my gut I knew he would do something like this. I knew it».

«Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault», Phryne said, trying to reassure her of the uselessness of beating herself over Elliott's actions. She had loved him during those three months they had been together, but moments like that had been one of the reasons why she had chosen to put an end to their relationship. She loved him too much and respected herself too much to enable him to embark on this self-sabotage act and there was only so much she could do if he wasn't willing to make the efforts required on his end. Phryne knew it wouldn't be easy for him, she had seen some fine men and women being fatally taken hostage by the bottle, but it frustrated her that that particular candour about his distinct sense of vulnerability didn't extend to what drove him to such behaviour. Or maybe he was indeed aware but didn't want to be open about it due to a deep-seated shame that ran even deeper by that acknowledgement. To some, Elliott could seem tremendously sure of himself, conceited even, some people would say, but it was a skilfully constructed façade that he tried to keep together at all cost. It didn't excuse him from what he did, but it made Phryne sad for him and for all the lost things taken away in the landslide.

«I know it isn't, but around 3 years ago he was thrown out of the casino in Nice because he had drank too much and was turning into a nuisance for the other customers. Robbie and I were outside when we heard a loud voice that seemed his as he was arguing with the gendarmes. I insisted it had never happened and promised to take him home immediately, which I did, and he wasn't booked formally as far as I know, but the way Rousseau said that I was surely familiar with a couple of instances leads me to believe that he either got wind of that incident or was even one of the gendarmes present». Nola ran her hands over her face again. « I swear to you that I do not drink more than what I know I can handle because I have Elliott's example of what may happen when one does. I can take Rousseau making that kind of aspersions regarding myself, but I will not hand my brother on a silver platter to that… to that man and expose him to ridicule, if not more, even if he does it by himself sometimes already.»

«I will help you and we will make something out of this», Phryne said, attempting to lead her friend towards a cooler state of mind. «Stay here, have a glass of water, check on Una, and I will meet Elliott».

«Thank you, Phryne. Thank you so much for your help», Nola said and Miss Fisher smiled at her friend.

Nola sat down, but got up from the sofa quickly afterwards, walking towards Joséphine and the window as Phryne went upstairs. She wondered how burdened Nola must feel. Between tending to Una, Elliot and, Phryne had noticed, Joséphine, she wasn't sure she had had time to allow herself to her own grief. And while Nola was a strong person, Phryne was afraid of the toll that situation could take on her.

As she got to the hallway, Phryne heard Caroline and Philip's voices muffed by the door of their room, but no noise came from Elliott's.

She knocked at the door and called his name, but without obtaining any answer, she went ahead.

The air was heavy with the stale smell of people and cigarettes and Phryne promptly opened the window to let in the outside breeze and sunlight.

Elliott was laying on his right side, still wearing last night's clothes it seemed, judging by the black socks and the white collar peeking from under the coverlet that Nola had likely drawn over him.

A pile of half-scribbled sheets of paper with a fountain pen on top of it had been pushed away to one side of the desk to make room for the nearly empty gin bottle Nola had taken out of her brother's hands and the tray with the breakfast she had brought up but which had been left untouched.

Phryne picked up a piece of toast and began to eat it. The bread was hard now and scraped her gums but she was so hungry she didn't care.

The room was perhaps slightly bigger than hers, but it shared its effortless and inviting ambiance. The simple lines of the beech furniture and the white linen made the different shades of grey and blue in the panels behind the bed stand out.

«You don't mind I'm eating your breakfast, do you? It doesn't seem to have appealed to you anyway», she said as she went to the en-suite bathroom to run a hot bath for him.

«Elliott?», she called again when she sat on the bed and touched his shoulder.

«Go away, Phryne, please», he said in a cavernous voice, pulling the bedclothes over his head.

«I would love to but I will not do that. Both because I care about you and I would never leave you here stewing in this alcoholic sauna you've concocted for yourself but also because the gendarmes are downstairs and they want to talk to you», Phryne said, pushing the coverlet away from his face. «I know you are going to tell me that you have already talked to them but Gaillard brought a friend today and he doesn't seem to like us very much», she continued, taking another bite off the piece of toast. «So you better get up, take a quick bath, and put on some clothes that don't look slept in».

«When you're the one carrying on the investigations, do you make people go over and over some of the most horrifying moments they have lived?», he said in a rather belligerent tone, still laying in the same position as he had.

«If need be», Phryne said, unwavering.

«Don't you find it cruel? As if them having actually happening wasn't enough to etch them on one's mind?», he said as if spitting the words out when he turned to Phryne.

«It may feel like that sometimes, I admit, but I can assure you that not knowing what happened to a loved one, how they died, and who killed them is even crueller», she replied, without being able to disguise the offense coating her words.

Elliott avoided Phryne's face again but this time it happened out of shame instead of out of defiance, and she could almost swear that the way he folded his legs closer to his body had been an unconscious physical reaction to his will to vanish out of sight in that exact moment.

«You must be terribly disappointed in me», Elliott said after some moments of heavy silence, slowly assuming a sitting position on the bed, looking squarely at Phryne now.

«You know me well enough to be sure that I would be lying if I said I'm not», she replied in a tone that while not as cutting as it had been before, still gave away her hurt.

Elliot also knew her well enough to say he was sorry so he kept quiet and ran his hand over his face.

«And it's to Nola that you should be apologising to even more».

His features grew even graver. Phryne hadn't meant to add to his distress by scolding him so she didn't advance the conversation, but she couldn't and wouldn't let him off the hook so easily either.

«I will. She doesn't deserve this».

«She doesn't and neither do you», Phryne said, taking that unexpected opportunity to try to set him in a different path but still fully conscious that any insight Elliott might gain could be as fragile as the sooner turn-in time promised in the morning after a short night of sleep. «How come you manage to be so insightful about others but so blind regarding yourself?», she said softly now, trying not to scare him off.

Elliott lowered his eyes for an instant:

«You know how it goes: Do as I say, not as I do», he replied, falling into a heavy silence afterwards.

«I did mean to go to bed after Nola went away, you know?«, he said eventually, looking at Phryne's face again. « But I couldn't even if I was so tired. I saw William, dead, every time I closed my eyes. I still keeping seeing him if I shut them for long. It seems that nothing can surpass that image. I know we sat in the garden outside before dinner while I was waiting for you and Nola, smoking a cigarette, and discussing Babe Ruth's 500th home run, but I can't summon that image as I can evoke you, me, and Nola having dinner, for example, the other from last night always comes forth. William isn't the first person I've lost, but this time...»

Tears started welling up in his eyes and Miss Fisher covered one of his hands with hers.

«I am afraid I'll never be able to remember him any other way», he confessed, running the free hand over his face.

«It may take days or weeks or even months, but I believe that you will. I am sorry to have kept you outside instead of letting you go if you wanted to do so», said Phryne, even if she had asked.

«Don't fret over it. I don't think sparing myself those minutes would have made any difference, in the end. I had already seen him by then», Elliott said, with a shrug.

«I never had to see Janey like this but there was a phase when I couldn't shake those suppositions away. I saw her, bruised, bloodied, and hastily buried after having endured unimaginable things even if I had never actually seen her», Phryne swallowed dryly, her heart tightened by the remembrance, « it was awful and devastating, but once it was over, I did manage to remember playing with her again, pretending that the old bathtub in the backyard was a boat and we were off to wonderful adventures», she said, with a little smile.

«I am certain this isn't the first time you have heard this, but I am sorry you had to go through losing your sister».

«It still means a lot to me. Thank you».

«And now, you will get up from that bed and get in that bathtub which I hope hasn't overfilled meanwhile», she said, reaching out for the coverlet and pulling it aside, their caring friendliness restored now.

Elliott took a readying breath and carefully rose from the bed. Once he was standing, he put his left hand on his temple. A long time had passed since the first time he had been reeling from such amount of gin and he was unfortunately sure that it wouldn't be the last, but movements like this were still very uncomfortable.

«While you prepare yourself, I will get you some rosemary tea. It will help settle your head and your stomach», Phryne aid, making good use of Dot's knowledge of that home-made remedy and which Miss Fisher completely recommended, after having benefited from it herself. «I will be back soon», she promised as she loaded the breakfast tray with the gin bottle the glass to bring them downstairs, waiting to see Elliott slowly but rather surely making his way to the bathroom.

**xxx**

Wearing a well-tailored dark grey three-piece suit, complemented by a tie with a forest green background intercut by groups of three slim white stripes, white shirt, and perfectly polished shoes, the Elliott Murrow that appeared in the living room 20 minutes later retained much of the elegant image known from the newspapers and magazines, but his charm was diminished by the circumstances.

«Where are the Gendarmes?», he asked Phryne, who was standing by the door to the study once again.

«Inside», she said, lowering her voice and pointing towards the door, «waiting eagerly for you».

Despite his morose disposition, Elliott let out a little laugh.

«I believe I hadn't been this wanted in years. It feels good».

«And how do you plan on dazzling them?»

Phryne was fully aware that Elliott was too smart to let himself be fooled by such flattery in case he had something to hide – a thought that made her shiver without further details needed -, but she was starting to feel the hours that had already passed press over her, the lack of leads nagging her increasingly.

«My statement will be more boring than dazzling, I'm afraid. 'Dear Mr Gendarme, I came home, wrote a couple of lines, and was getting ready for bed when I heard someone crying and yelling and came outside to find my friend dead», he said in a quick tone that crumbled a little in the end.

«You better go inside before they come and drag you by the collar», Phryne said, patting him on the arm, «which would be a shame. It looks so pristine».

«I would loath that», Elliott replied, raising his hand to the knot of his tie, taking a deep breath and turning to knock on the door.

«Just one thing… would you mind borrowing me your motorcar once again?»

«Not at all. Act as if it were your own», he offered.

«Thank you», Phryne said, right before he was admitted into the study.

Phryne saw no need to try to hear the conversation this time, trusting that Rousseau wouldn't be able to able to get much more information that the one Elliott had just conveyed to her, and walked towards the window. Nola and Joséphine were still standing nearby, in silence this time.

«How is Alphonse? I haven't seen him today yet», she asked.

«Upstairs. Painting the mural. He feels very guilty for taking so much time… now», Joséphine replied, leaving implied what was contained in that last word. «Besides, he finds that the work is a welcome distraction», she continued, twisting herself slightly so she could look at Phryne as she spoke.

«I am going to Antibes. Do you need anything?», Phryne said.

Both women signalled that they didn't and Miss Fisher left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this week's last chapter. I hope you enjoyed it, even if the investigation itself took a little break and it focused more on character than crime. I hope it still grabs your attention enough for you to want to know what's coming up next.
> 
> Babe Ruth did hit his 500th home run on the 11th August 1929, becoming the first MLB player to do so.
> 
> I heard someone on TV lauding rosemary tea as a good thing to have while you're hung over, but I can't vouch for its effect.
> 
> This closes this week's posting and a new chapter is planned for next Tuesday.


	13. Chapter 13

_Just by looking at you, no one would guess how nervous you are. To their unknowing eye, you appear 'calm' and 'collected' and 'cool as a cucumber', and all those strange words and idioms usually linked with a serene state of mind. For a moment, you wonder why; personally you find that 'c' sound rather harsh and thumping. But you digress. You close your eyes, you open your eyes, you focus your gaze. You pay attention to every little noise around you and try to ascertain their origin. Silence is convenient, for now at least, while you wait. While you wait and try to keep dizziness at bay._

_It's always as if it was the first time you are doing this. You are surprised it came so far, obviously, but you know enough about people to believe that we all have hidden facets that are only brought forward when called upon by life. You feared this sudden impulse at first; how could you not when it's hailed as one of the vilest things you could ever perpetrate. But now that fear has been mostly replaced by a sense of exhilaration you had never thought possible. Your head may be restless, but your hands aren't. They are still and certain, fully sure about what they are going to do next, what you are going to do next. The murmur of the sea echoes in your chest. You let out a breath._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this new (small) chapter. I'm sorry I couldn't post it earlier today. I'll try to post tomorrow's chapter more promptly.


	14. Chapter 14

Phryne swatted the crumbs off her clothes and got into the car. The delay forced upon her by the unexpected nap, Rousseau's visit, and its consequent turmoil had prevented her from having lunch; she had to be in front of the morgue before the shift ended and the croissants she bought from the boulangerie on Rue de la République after having dropped off some telegraphs from Una to inform people of William's death would have to do. (Not that she was complaining, those had been very delicious croissants).

As she waited, Miss Fisher tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, her gaze fixed on the hospital gate, but there was no sign of the person she was looking for. Her plan was supported by something she had noticed, but she was nervous. Phryne didn't experience this it very often, but there were many volatile factors in that plan, each like a pulley keeping a cord on track but which might easily break. She didn't mind unpredictability in her life, welcomed it, in fact, but she would rather succeed at the first attempt, particularly because this wasn't the kind of endeavour that allowed repeated tries.

Since William's body hadn't even been officially released yet, she couldn't be sure the autopsy had already taken place, so she was relying on the vague scheduling details she had received that morning and the analysis of the obituaries and news published on that day's newspaper. There had been a motorcar accident outside the town on the road that linked Antibes to Nice which had claimed two lives and a man who had fallen off a lemon tree as he picked its fruits, but apart from those casualties, most people who had died had perished of old age. Even if fully aware that not all deceased would be announced on the news and that the medical examiners might have on-going work busying them, Phryne still estimated that they wouldn't have their hands so full they would have to push back the autopsy of a murder victim and risk all the loss of evidence posed by such a delay.

 _Mac wouldn't do so for sure_ , Phryne thought, enveloped by the sting of missing her friend, not only in such capacity but also as a professional. Dr Elizabeth Macmillan's hands might be tied in many regards by her superiors, but there was no doubt that she would do her best within the conditions she had, not to mention her clear sense of duty and acute skill to sort out priorities when facing a board full of tasks to fulfill.

Phryne shook her head as if to regain concentration and focus on the job at hand.

Despite the plenty of sunlight left, the number of people coming in and out of the hospital had diminished as the workday slipped through. Some had shown up with grave looks and returned with their features bearing the strain of having learnt sad news about their afflictions or loved ones', others appeared to be carried outside by lighter steps after having received a pleasant surprise, three couples had walked out the iron gate followed by family with small bundles in their arms, still attempting to strike a balance between bewilderment, amazement and also fear, now that those children were out there in the world. There had been tear-stricken faces after irreversible goodbyes and men and women who had left the packages they had brought with the relatives and friends they had come to visit, both the sick and the healthy comforted by slices of cake, friendly conversation, a hug. Doctors, nuns bearing the red cross of the medical staff, and orderlies showed near the doors but quickly went inside, their work still far from finished.

Phryne observed the tableau attentively, now that the word 'hospital' wasn't enough to unleash a stream of memories featuring hunter-green tarpaulin tents, mud, overworked staffs, hurriedly-built structures and more injured men that what she could ever dare to count. She still felt a pang of sadness, but it didn't swallow her as it had once done.

The yard was now empty except for the man in blue coming from the building on the right. He seemed to be clutching something to his chest and Phryne found herself squinting, trying to make out what it could be. It seemed to be beige and rather malleable, as it appeared to flap as the man walked.

Miss Fisher checked the pendant watch dangling from her neck and glimpsed at the time it told. She put it back with a swift gesture and exited the car, walking towards the hospital grounds with a precise but unhurried step, searching through her bag as she moved. From now and then, she shot a quick look at the man making his way, adjusting her trajectory, now that she could discern clearly his load. He seemed rather distracted too, giving the impression that his feet were acting on their own accord and had learnt that path by the nearly daily repetition exercised as he carried the mail from one building to the other.

She continued to toy with the contents of her handbag, rotating the compact, the silver mesh coin purse, the lipstick pencil, a little notebook, and stray bracelets inside. Miss Fisher's shoes scrapped upon the tarmac, as did the man's.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

.Click.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Click. Click. Click.

Tap. Tap.

Click. Click. Phryne crashed against the gendarme, discreetly using her hands to knock off from his arms the folders he was bringing from the morgue to his headquarters, sprinkling them around as much as possible and tilting her bag so the light belongings would fall too.

«Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur. Are you well?», Phryne said in French, «I am so sorry. I have been so scatter-brained lately, I didn't see you!», she continued, putting her hands first to her face and then in front of the gendarme to prevent him from starting to pick up the files right away.

«Are you well, Madame?», the man asked, looking worriedly at Phryne. He was young and on the lower end of the rank scale, judging by his insignia. «I apologise. I am afraid I wasn't paying full attention to where I was going».

«I am terribly sorry», Phryne repeated, touching her forehead and the upper part of her chest with penitent but also coquette gestures. «How clumsy of me! I made you drop all your papers. Let me help you», she said, rapidly crouching and beginning to gather the folders. «What's your name?»

«Fontaine, Madame, but please, there's no need», the gendarme said, getting down to take this woman's belonging's off the ground.

«It's the least I can do, Monsieur».

Aubert, G., Millet, L., Chevalier, T., Leduc, C.

Fontaine was holding most of Phryne's items already while she still had folders to get to, not to mention that two were closer to the gendarme than to her.

«At least it isn't raining. Your documents would have been destroyed if it were the case. How dreadful!».

Laporte, B., Doucet, H., Montgomery, W., Duchemin, R.

_Montgomery, W._

Phryne turned so she wouldn't be facing Fontaine, who was still crouching, and quickly hid the file under her coat, securing it between the fabric and her back with the waistband of her trousers.

«Well, I think you have all them now, M. Fontaine», Phryne said, with a smile, handing them to the gendarme, who took them with one hand, the other arm close against his chest so he wouldn't drop Phryne's things. «Let me take this off you, kind Monsieur. Thank you so much for your help», said Miss Fisher as she did so and putting them in her handbag.

«You are welcome. I think everything is in one piece».

«Oh, yes. It seems so. I am sorry for having taken so much of your time», she said, wishing to withdraw to some place quiet before she was betrayed by the perilously hidden file. «I mustn't keep you further. I am sorry once again and I thank you for all your help».

«I hope it isn't anything serious», said Fontaine, the folders now back in his arms in their original configuration.

«I beg your pardon?»

«What brought you to the hospital, I hope it isn't something serious, Madame», he said with a small motion of his shoulders.

«Thank you. No, I have come to visit a friend but he's nearly recovered. Thank you for your concern», Phryne replied with a little smile and slight bowing nod.

«May your friend recover soon and steadily».

«Thank you», repeated Phryne, about to explode if any further pleasantry was required.

«Have a good day, Madame».

The gendarme touched the brim of his kepi as a parting gesture.

«Likewise, Monsieur Fontaine», she replied, turning to the hospital once the gendarme resumed walking away.

Miss Fisher took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself and calm her heart. This wasn't the first time Phryne had been in such a situation, but the pressure she had put on herself to be successful had added an unnecessary burden to her investigation. Rousseau would hardly share any detail of the report, Gaillard might – if he weren't under that strict superior – and she had had to take the measures she had deemed appropriate. There was nothing new in those circumstances that warranted her surprise.

When she was close to the building, she turned to ascertain Fontaine's whereabouts but she didn't see him anymore. He was probably behind the houses that lined the few streets that separated the hospital and the gendarmerie.

Phryne didn't like to retort to this kind of tactics, thinking it could be easily taken as proof by those who warned about «the danger of the feminine wiles», but if it was what society put at her disposal, than she would make use of it and relish in the irony of turning those expectations on their head and making use of it to pursue something she was supposed to let lie.

The first part of her plan had been accomplished, but there was no time to celebrate. Instead of entering the hospital, Miss Fisher walked to the small garden on its left and sat on a bench in one of the corners, sheltered from view by olive trees and shrubs. She reached to her back and picked the folder. It wasn't very wrinkled and the handwriting on the cover identifying it with William's name, date of birth, death, and of the report was clear. The information inside had been typed, which relieved Phryne who, for a while, had worried about the chance of illegible text scrawled by the coroner.

The pen marks on the body diagram on the right of the sheet were the first thing to draw Phryne's attention. Seven stab wounds. Seven four centimetres-wide stab wounds each. Three more than what those she had counted on William's back the previous night. Whoever had perpetrated that crime was truly making an effort to not let him live. She then proceeded to read the report itself, doing so cautiously and consciously, aware of possible limitations her French might have regarding such specific matters.

As her eyes moved over the lines, Phryne's face revealed the surprise and also the shock that engulfed her as she read.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this chapter, particularly in light of the political results. While rather case-focused, I hope it presented at least a momentary distraction. And Phryne's hands-on approach to Police work even when told she should stay away is one of the things that draw us to her, no?
> 
> I have no idea if correspondence between the morgue and the Gendarmerie would be exchanged like this, but I hope you can accept it for story purposes
> 
> I couldn't ascertain if there was indeed a small garden near the hospital either. I based this bit on the trees that can be seen in the old picture that can be seen on the 'History' page of Antibes' current hospital.
> 
> A new chapter will be up tomorrow. Thank you for reading and for your feedback.


	15. Chapter 15

_Your lungs burn. You know it's due to the cigarette smoke, but it may as well be from the sense of rejection taking seize of your chest like lava. You thought you had overcome this awareness of inadequacy that makes you feel so small in your skin. You had been pretending to be confident for so long you had even fooled yourself, as you find out when you realize how easily the line between shame and hurt can be blurred by rage and the recognition of betrayal that cut through you not that many hours ago like gashes across your skin. You should have gotten used to it by now, you try to convince yourself. No matter how much you try, you will never be enough. You also feel desperate and the acrid taste of it threatens to smother you. Or so it seems. Desperate and trapped and that rarely ends well. You take a drag. The tip of your cigarette gleams like the lantern of a lighthouse. You shouldn't be here but you also shouldn't have been humiliated like that. Hot red rage makes your fists curl tightly. Your hands hurt. But they don't hurt as much as you and, for good or bad or worse, what you are hurt. Your eyes burn with tears not cried. The murmur of the sea menaces the little grasp you have on them, but you are stronger than that. You are so much stronger than that._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this small chapter. I hope you don't hate me too much for withholding the information Phryne found on the police report for a little bit longer.  
> And that's it for this week. Tune in Tuesday to (perhaps) find out what Phryne read that shocked her so. ;)


	16. Chapter 16

«Possible presence of poison».

Those three words kept shadowing Phryne's steps back to the car, each hard 'p' hitting her as if someone was saying them right into her ear.

It was in that confused daze that Miss Fisher changed her hat and her coat to ones different than those she had been wearing during her provoked run-in with Fontaine and walked to the Gendarmerie to leave the report.

Images of the great deal of saliva mixed with blood around William's mouth and on his jacket lapels and of the abandoned glass of whiskey flashed in Phryne's brain. The coroner had noted signs of liver and kidney damage, of convulsions, heavy muscular stiffness, and difficulty in breathing, consistent with possible poisoning by strychnine, perhaps enhanced by some other substance, due to the abrasions over and under his lips and down his chin. William was already dying of asphyxiation when the stab wounds had punctured and teared his aorta and pulmonary and renal arteries.

_Had someone tried to murder him twice?_

It was nearly too baffling to understand, even for her, with her already wide horizons broadened by the police work.

When she got close to the Gendarmerie, Phryne stopped before crossing the street that would lead her into the main door. She knew she couldn't take long there if she didn't want to risk drawing attention upon herself, but those conclusions were a lot to process and she needed to convey a blank lightness needed when she came face to face with any of the men employed inside that building. Her gender made her presence notable enough there, she couldn't let any particular sign of distress make her even more memorable to the gendarmes.

She also didn't know if Rousseau had come back from Chateau Ondine already and Phryne wouldn't provide him fuel to the fire of his disdain for her.

Surely now, and with the beige folder concealed by her coat and firmly held between her side and her upper-arm, Miss Fisher crossed the street and took a quick look into the station, hoping that Fontaine was at some desk beyond the glass frosted wall that separated the reception from the rest of the rooms. He did seem to be out of sight so far and she walked ahead.

«Bonjour, Madame», greeted the gendarme manning the reception, getting up from the desk on the right of the counter.

He had dark hair and brown eyes and also looked young. Between Lapin, Fontaine, and him, Phryne wondered if a batch of recently-graduated gendarmes had been assigned to Antibes.

«Bonjour. I would like to have a word with the Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard, please», Phryne said in French, subtly eyeing the stackable document trays on her left.

« Je suis desolé, Madame, but he is conducting work out of the station for the moment. Would you like to leave him a message?»

«And Capitaine Rousseau?»

If Gaillard wasn't back yet, it was highly likely that his superior wasn't either, but she needed to buy time. The folder had already been moved to the space between Phryne's abdomen and the counter, but it wasn't enough.

«The Capitaine isn't available as well, I'm afraid», the man replied in a professional tone.

«Do you have a pencil I could borrow then? I will leave him a message».

«Of course, Madame», he said, turning to take one from the metal holder on the desk at which he had been working.

«Do you have any idea if they are going to take long to return?», Phryne said, trying to cover the noise she made as she quickly put the folder on the first tray.

«I do not have a prediction for the timing of their return»», the gendarme said, handing it to her a fraction of a second later than when Phryne had withdrawn her hand away from the file. «Here's some paper too.»

«That's very thoughtful», she remarked with a smile.

She scribbled a message to Gaillard wondering if there were any news, folded it, and signed it.

«Thank you», said Phryne, giving the sheet of paper back to the gendarme and picking up her handbag, flicking the tray over and sending the documents on it to the floor, most of them landing right next to the feet of the man.

«I am so sorry», she said. Phryne had apologised more in that afternoon than during the three previous months. «I think the handbag strap got caught somewhere».

It was tremendously risky to use the same manoeuvre on the same day and with people who worked together and might end up talking about their run-ins with an uncoordinated woman who had had their paperwork scattered around. But Phryne couldn't shake away the coroner's report nor the sadness over all the suffering William had had to endure in the last minutes of his life. No one deserved to die like that. She wouldn't be satisfied with shoving the report on a shelf, worrying it might get lost and halt the whole investigation. There was a chance the gendarme could gather the assortment of loose sheets and folders and just put them back without going through them one by one, but she had decided to take that gamble and hope the stamp of the coroner's office was discordant enough for him to notice that those papers hadn't been filed properly.

«It has already happened, don't worry», the gendarme said, raising his eyes to look at her.

Once again, there was a man crouching, banding together things Phryne had dropped. Despite it all, the remark still made her smile as she was on her way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and are still enticed to find out more about the mystery, now that you have some more new details to add to what you already know.
> 
> I'm sorry for not having updated yesterday, but it wasn't possible to make it to the computer in time. On the plus side, there will be another chapter more to read right away.


	17. Chapter 17

_The weather is too hot and the grip around your head doesn't lessen. Its rage seizes your limbs and you clench your jaw. Such strong feeling makes you see bright screaming colours whether your eyes are opened or closed. You just want to be left alone, but it doesn't seem that it will happen so soon. It's rather pointless, but you also ponder on what may have caused such abrupt reaction when everything seemed perfectly normal just a few hours ago._

_You stay quietly in the dark, hoping it will be of some help, but nothing has changed so far. The murmur of the sea coming through the closed window disquiets instead of soothing you and a certain agitation makes you sway like a leaf in the wind. Well, frustrated would probably be a more accurate way to describe your state of mind in fact, considering how futile all your actions have been. You want to move but it's difficult when you can barely lift a finger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the new chapter I promised in the last note. It's small, but I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> If everything goes according to the plan, this week's last chapter will be up tomorrow.
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your continued support of this story.


	18. Chapter 18

Rousseau and Gaillard were gone by the time Phryne returned to Chateau Ondine and she was glad for it. When M. Duval came to open the gate, he told her that they had been interviewing house-guests and employees alike, yet she didn't bolt after them immediately in an attempt to discover the result of those conversations. She was tremendously tired and believed that her standing inside of the household might allow her to have the information she was looking for without the constraints of such set-up.

She was walking up to the house when she noticed a lonely, tall, slender figure standing near the edge of the garden overlooking the sea.

«Mr Van Asten», she said, greeting Philip once she was some steps behind him.

«Ah, Miss Fisher… good afternoon», he greeted, taking his hands out of his pockets and turning to face her. They had always interacted very little and formal treatments suited them both perfectly.

« I am glad to see you are feeling well enough to get out of bed».

Impeccably groomed and impeccably dressed as usual, the dark shadows under his eyes transformed his carefully curated appearance into the utmost portrayal of dignified grieving.

«Thank you», said Philip, surprise tingeing his words.

«I met Caroline this morning», Phryne explained, «she mentioned how distraught you were».

«Yes, I was rather unfit to come downstairs, I'm afraid», he said. Phryne had expected such proud man would perhaps attempt to diminish the scope of his reaction, but there was no trace of shame in his words.

«I still cannot believe that William is gone», Philip continued after a small pause, looking at Phryne and then back at the ocean. « We had dinner and talked, I fell asleep, and the next thing I know is that he's dead in the garden.»

«I am sorry for your loss», she offered, tugging at the collar of the coat she was holding draped over her forearm.

Philip nodded in acknowledgement of her gesture.

«I am too, Miss Fisher. William and I had had our issues over the years but we were working on overcoming them. It truly saddens me that we will never bridge that gap now», he continued, dabbing his eyes with his fingertips.

«Apart from Caroline, do you have any other family, Mr Van Asten?», Phryne asked, moved by how alone in the world he seemed in that moment.

«Some distant cousins I don't know very well on my father's side and an uncle on my mother's but we are acquainted only more than anything. My mother and her brother had never gotten along very well and her second marriage deepened that rift. My uncle didn't approve of William, you see. I understood over time that the fact that she was happy was the truly important thing, but he never did.»

«Families are complicated things», Phryne said with a little sigh she wished she would have contained.

«Is that the case with yours, Miss Fisher?», he asked, looking squarely at her.

« Nothing that would make a particularly compelling account, no matter Mr Tolstoy's thoughts on the matter», Phryne replied in a tone that while light was clear about how she didn't feel inclined to further that conversation. She was rarely keen on discussing the Fishers' complex dynamics and she certainly didn't wish to do so with him.

«Well…I doubt anyone's appetite level is very high, but I guess dinner will be served soon, and I would like to change first», Philip said, taking a look at his wristwatch.

«Yes, I will go inside in a minute too».

Phryne watched Philip walk towards the house, making his way through the terrace, and then turned to look at the sea ahead. While very faint, it was already possible to discern some traces of twilight on the horizon, draped at the water's end like the hem of a curtain.

xxx

Phryne was getting out of her room already dressed for dinner in a dove-grey sleeveless dress when Alphonse was exiting the only unused room of the house.

«Miss Fisher!», he said in a surprised tone.

He had been working, she guessed due to the rough white shirt and dark trousers with specks of paint which also dusted his hands and forearms like blue, yellow, and white freckles over his own. Phryne quickly averted her eyes from them and focused on his face. Those details reminded her too much of René and even if noticing them didn't affect her now as they once had, it still made her feel slightly uneasy.

«M. Pernot», she greeted, «I was just wondering how you were doing. I hadn't seen you since yesterday's dreadful night yet.»

Alphonse coaxed a weak smile out of his tired features.

«That's is very kind of you, Miss Fisher», he said with a little grateful nod. He always called her Miss Fisher, never 'Mademoiselle'. «I am busying myself for the moment. I think that getting the mural done would be what William would want me to do. And I appreciate the distraction, to be honest».

«I agree. William Montgomery wasn't the type of man who would be easily deterred and it was obvious he was looking forward to seeing the finished work».

Alphonse nodded once again.

«Well, I won't take up any more of your time. I am sure you want to get ready for dinner and I'm going to check on Una before going downstairs».

«I will see you then, Miss Fisher», he said, moving to the next door and getting inside after a little tap.

xxx

No one had cocktails that night. They would eventually, everybody was sure of that, but for the moment having them without William didn't seem to make any sense, so they tried to drown the silence that hovered above their heads with some bottle of wine M. Duval had brought from the cellar.

The heads of the table were clear. Una had come downstairs to have dinner, strong in her wish to not board herself up in her room despite the circumstances and the grief that seized her, but sitting on her usual place without William across from her was more than what she was able to bear. People ate quietly and without saying a word; no one seemed to feel forced to talk anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay in updating the story today. It doesn't exactly advance the investigation much but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless. RL messes up my posting times and that's why I stuck to this schedule instead of posting daily, as much as I wished to.
> 
> Posting is supposed to resume next week, hopefully at more regular times. Thank you for reading this chapter and for your understanding.


	19. Chapter 19

_You know that from now on you are living on borrowed time. Every breath can be the last, every gesture, every word. You don't know how many of these 'lasts' you will be allowed, so you intend on thoroughly appreciating each one. There's nothing left for you to do now but waiting. You take a swig of whisky and this time make an actual effort to discern all those notes you are supposed to find. You take a deep breath. Your face looks serious. Well, you feel serious. What's about to happen is no small feat after all. You had some hesitance about this before, of course you had, but they are fainter than an old memory now. It is necessary. You know it deep in your bones. You tried everything you could before this but you failed. You don't like failing. You also don't like it when people disrespect what has been agreed upon and treat you with contempt. You swallow the whisky. You didn't pay attention the traces left by oak of the casks or the traces of the sherry they once carried or the water sourced from a spring on the property or vanilla or orange or whatever notes you were supposed to find and the drink just burns down your throat without further ceremony. You were fooled and you can't tolerate it. You wait. There's nothing left for you to do but waiting. And so you go upstairs (maybe the one last time) and wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Tuesday has come and so here's a new chapter of this fic. I hope you enjoyed it and are looking forward to reading what will be up tomorrow.
> 
> Thank you for your feedback I appreciate it more than I could put in words.


	20. Chapter 20

Phryne couldn't shake away the doubts about the lack of murder weapon or of hints regarding the possible trajectory of the killer.

She was acutely aware of how tired she was when she had finally gone to bed last night, but she had slept quite poorly nevertheless. Those two questions kept swimming around in her head like slippery fish she couldn't catch with her bare hands. She wished she had someone to talk to about them. There were many people in that house, friends even, it was true, but none of them was Jack or Mac or Dot or even Mr Butler. Phryne hadn't regretted coming to France so far, but a particular kind of restlessness was starting to brew in her muscles.

Since sleep seemed to be completely impossible, Phryne pushed the sheet aside and got up. It was the first time she did so before Mathilde came in to open the curtains and serve her coffee. She missed the beverage but she could perfectly take it downstairs, and started to ready herself.

Feeling fuzzy and somewhat dispirited, Phryne tried to liven up her pale acqua outfit with a pair of drop amazonite earrings but to little avail. Putting effort in her appearance usually helped improve her mood even if only for a little at least, but she had slept little and it showed in her features and stance.

With a resigned sigh, she carefully left her room, not only because she didn't want to draw attention, but also due to the fact that everyone seemed to be asleep still, considering how peaceful the first floor sounded. Phryne tiptoed to the stairs and then her way down, just in case Pavlov was around and came to greet her.

She could hear M. Duval, Mathilde, and Mme Leblanc talking speedily in French from behind the kitchen door as they prepared breakfast, yet she didn't go in to meet them. Instead, Phryne checked the main entrance to see if it was still bolted or if the butler had already unlocked it with a key from the wooden cabinet on the right as he did every morning. It was only on the latch and she opened it, walked through, and closed it as silently as she could.

The sky over her head was already blue and there wasn't a single cloud in sight, but a slight breeze came from the sea and slightly ruffled her clothes and her hair, as well as the tarpaulin still laid over the crime scene.

Phryne walked towards the edge of the garden, to where William had been murdered. She doubted that it would make much of a difference, but she still folded the tarpaulin, analysed what was underneath, and unfurled it once again just to be sure that there was no lead left unnoticed.

Certain of the fact that there wasn't, she looked in the direction of the pinewoods on her right. The assailant might have hidden there or even made their way to the house through them. Given how thick the vegetation was, Phryne pondered on whether there was a wall somewhere in its midst to delineate the property or if the Montgomerys had chosen to let the trees alone fulfil that purpose.

She wouldn't let the gendarmes sweep the area first and headed there, paying attention to any disturbance in the foliage which might indicate recent movement.

The branches seemed intact but it changed when she moved closer to the imaginary straight line that would lead to the bench where William had been seated. The boughs of younger trees were bent forwards and backwards, as if someone had traced the same path to get in and out of those woods. It was somewhat clever, but the curve to the right described through made for an odd detail. Phryne walked alongside it, making sure she didn't break any branches, just to find herself some metres behind from where she had first walked into the woodland, by the wall near the gate. Puzzled by that unexpected outcome, she moved further into the woods, her mind sparkling with the thrill of curiosity and the numerous hypotheses launched by that fact. She spotted the wall that divided the Montgomery property from the outside at last and discovered that it wasn't very high or particularly troublesome to climb. Standing in the middle of trees presented an advantage, in fact, since it allowed discretion and one could take all the time needed to overcome the barrier. Whatever the original plan had been, the trajectory followed made no sense. Why would someone jump from the wall further away and next to the gate, walk in a sort of half-circle, leave the blanket of green, and then come back through the same path? Even the excuse of cover seemed too far-fetched. That realisation thudded upon Phryne's heart as if she had been physically struck in the chest. It was a preliminary conclusion, but the details she had just gathered forced her to definitely acknowledge the theory she had dreaded the most: someone from inside the house had killed William. Her breath caught up in her throat. She tried to grasp that she could no longer avoid that possibility. Despite the fact that was still rather early and she was under all that glorious, fresh shade, Phryne felt her cheeks burn.

«You know very well: murder finds me», she had once replied in jest to Mac when her friend had pointed out that they were in a holiday, must she find murder everywhere, during the Christmas in July celebrations. She tried to shake that memory away, but it clung to her like sweat. Janey, John Andrews, Mrs Henderson, Leonard Stevens, Yourka Rosen, Walter Copland, Bert's brothers in arms Tommo and Ronnie, Marcella Lavender, Kitty Pace, Marigold Brown, Freddy Ashmead, Frank McKay, Clive Johnson, Moira Johnson, Frances Wilde, Gerty Haynes, Len Fowler, Vera Mortimer, Quentin Lynch, Birdie Fowler, not to mention those whose murders she had been actually called to investigate, those who had died during her work, those people linked to people she knew by blood, friendship or professional connections, and those whose murderers had been linked to herself. She guessed that it hadn't seem so flagrant before because Melbourne could seem awfully small sometimes when one was running in particular circles, but now she was on the other side of the world and another murder had taken place in such close vicinity. Yet, not even that could be exactly considered a novel situation, she became aware of, as she recalled in horror how poor Pierre Sarcelle had been thrown in front of a train in Paris for a painting of her and how Veronique had been in such danger ever since. Phryne ran through the woods, smothered by the green surrounding her as well as her recent realisation. Normally, she would find being right in the middle of things incredibly diverting but murder was not one of those instances. Maybe she had been too focused on her investigations to notice how many of the threads lead to her.

Phryne knew it wouldn't dissuade her from carrying on being a detective and she hadn't started to suddenly believe she was a bad omen hovering above people's lives, yet she still needed a few moments to breathe and assimilate it without becoming overwhelmed.

But standing on an ample garden such as Chateau Ondine's watching the languorous waves wasn't enough to ease the pressure on her chest. Phryne needed to get out of that house, of that property, even if only for half an hour or so. Afterwards, she would devote all her attention to investigating William's murder, but now she couldn't even hear herself think, any conjecture overpowered by the litany of the dead and of their killers she had ever known playing in her head.

In light of the latest developments, Phryne wasn't thrilled about taking Elliott's car, but it was the only way she had to leave Chateau Ondine without having to wait and she wanted to cry those tears prickling her eyes as far away from it as she could. She went inside and fetched her bag, carefully opening and closing every door she had to cross, taking every step as silently as she could do so no one would find her out. If not for not wanting to get in trouble with the Police, she wouldn't even have done so, and would have simply picked up the vehicle and driven away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it despite the turn it has taken. I hope you don't consider this reaction too un-Phryne-like, but while she's fearless and bold, she's not a robot and I think such realisation would weigh on her, if only for a while.
> 
> A new chapter is scheduled for tomorrow and I think it contains something you'll like. I know some of you are reading from the USA and maybe you can still check it between a turkey bite or two or have something to look for after the holiday is over (too presumptuous?). Well, whenever that happens and whether you celebrate Thanksgiving or not, I hope you continue reading this story. Thank you for that and for your feedback.


	21. Chapter 21

Phryne parked by the casino. While the summer rush didn't hit its quaint streets, Juan Les Pins still mimicked the sleepy little coastal village it was during the rest of the year and there was plenty of choice of where to leave the motorcar.

She was much more settled now, after having cried by the side of the road, her tears blurring the sight of the sea ahead and her throat coarse from the sobs. Yet, there was something she had to do before returning to the house and delving into her search for the answers she was looking for.

Phryne feared for a moment that 9 o'clock in the morning might be too early for the gallery to be open (it was for her in regular circumstances), but the door was ajar already.

The cheerful-looking woman Phryne had met some days ago was sitting behind a desk talking to a man who had his back turned to the entrance.

Phryne greeted them with a simple «Bonjour» and followed through to the particular painting she was interested in, not even attempting to feign her keenness on anything else.

At first sight, it seemed to depict a black plane with a white stomach soaring across a deeply blue sky over a layer of woolly clouds hovering on the horizon, above a yellow field, but a more thorough regard showed that underneath the plane lines it was actually a bird, with long pointed wings and the distinct forked tail of swallows.

Phryne smiled for the first time that day. She had been pleasantly surprised when she had seen it during her initial visit to the gallery, but now the sight of that image had elicited a welcome sense of comfort, joy, and even giddiness that stirred her chest. She had briefly entertained buying it previously, but more than the lovely connection that it reminded her of, it was profound emotion that was leading her now. She could imagine the painting adorning her parlour, the same place that had witnessed so many of the moments that had transformed Phryne and Jack's relationship into what it was now (whatever that was), fitting seamlessly into the décor as if it had been its intended place ever since the artist had first thought of it.

«Do you like _La Dindoleta,_ Mademoiselle?», said a man's voice in French to her left.

«Very much», she replied still looking at the painting.

«As the painter of that, I feel very glad to know so».

«Does _dindoleta_ have something to do with swallows?», Phryne said, turning to him.

«Yes, it's swallow in Provençal», he replied with a welcoming smile. «I am Amadèu Noguès».

«My name is Phryne Fisher. Pleased to meet you, M. Noguès», she said, offering her hand for him to shake, which he did in a gentlemanly manner.

«Like-wise, Mlle Fisher», he said, smiling warmly at her.

Phryne had found him handsome when she had seen him at the Cannes' casino, but now that she was seeing him this close and talking to him, she found that he radiated a very agreeable and charming presence. He was wearing a day dark suit with a collar-less white shirt but looked as confident and assured as he had done in his fine dinner clothes.

«It's yours», said Amadèu. Phryne's gaze had drifted tothe painting once again.

«I couldn't possible accept such gift», replied Phryne, unusually bewildered. «I will gladly buy it. In fact, that's what I came here to do. It's your work. You put time and effort into it, it wouldn't be fair if you weren't rewarded in some way».

«As you said, it's my work and seeing someone as moved by it as you are is the highest compliment I could receive. I am choosing to offer you this one. Most of the others are sold already and for more money that what they are probably worth, even if I believe in what I do».

«Thank you. Thank you very much. That is very generous of you», she said with a smile. He had talked in such a sincere manner, Phryne couldn't find a way to refuse it again.

«Thank _you_ for the amiable words so early in the morning. Is this your first time in France?»

«No, not at all. I was here during the war and after it was over I lived in Paris for some years. In Montparnasse, in fact.»

«I miss Paris when I'm not there and I miss the Provence when I'm not here».

«I understand that feeling», Phryne said, unable to avoid a wistful expression from appearing on her face. «But maybe someday you will find the place that will ingrain itself in you in such a fashion that you can't help but choose to be there without reservations or constraint, even if you still long to see the world and actually do so from time to time.»

«Is it what happened to you, Mlle Fisher? »

«I don't know yet. But I find that I'm not as restless as I once was. I mean, I still want to go on adventures and experience life intensely, but maybe I don't need to move across the world all the time to do it? I guess I got carried away. How about you? I had heard about your work and the accolades you have been receiving. Congratulations.»

«Thank you. Oh, don't worry. I do ponder on these things. I was born in Paris, but my mother is from Barcelona, half-Catalan, half-Basque, and my father is French from Toulon, but with ancestry from the south, near the Pyrenees and from the north, in Brittany. We lived in Paris for a while, but we moved around a great deal. They are painters with wandering natures. How is that bit about apples and trees?»

«The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.»

« Yes, that one. I guess I fell right under it», he said with a smile that took over his face and wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

«But you came back to Paris.»

«It's true. Go figure. Art called me there, I'm afraid. I could be in many places, but Paris is where it really speaks to me…Well, I guess I'm the one who may have gotten carried away now.»

«Not at all. I'm not an artist myself but I have friends who are and, as I told you, I did live in Montparnasse and moved in those circles so I have witnessed it first-hand», Phryne said.

She could understand Alphonse's dislike towards Amadèu from a professional standpoint, but she liked him so far. «We are more similar than what we might have thought then: I was born in Australia, lived there until a turn of life dropped me in England, then Paris for a while, another stint in England, and a return to Australia. I'm here for the time being. I have visited many countries but seems that, excluding travelling, my life does revolve around these three places».

«Funny thing. Isn't it?», he said, genuinely reflecting on what Phryne had said. «Sometimes we think we are free to run away but it's more nuanced than that».

«I apologise for taking this pleasant conversation to such a philosophical path this early. I don't do this very often. Both the being out and about at this time and the melancholic tint, I mean», Phryne said with a little smile. «I must leave soon anyway and I guess some could see this split like a sign».

«Do not preoccupy yourself», said Amadèu with a shrug, «It has been very interesting, Mlle Fisher. But I won't keep you any long, if you must go. I trust we will cross paths again soon if you are still around Juan Les Pins».

«I have to come and pick up the painting at least», Phryne said in a playful tone.

«You can have it delivered, if you prefer».

«Picking it up doesn't trouble me at all. I like coming to the village. I find it very charming»

«As a sort of native, allow me to thank you for the compliment», said Amadèu with a little bow that made Phryne laugh.

«Is there anything else I need to do? Sign some sort of document?»

«There is no necessity. Mme Orlova will put a mark on that plaque and write it down on her notes and that's it», he said.

«Thank you», she said, stretching out her hand.

«My pleasure».

«Au revoir», Phryne said to both Mme Orlova and Amadèu prior to leaving the gallery.

Before she returned to Chateau Ondine, Phryne went to post office and had a very simple telegram sent – Letters always took too long.

I MISS YOU

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A/n goes here because it's too long for the proper box:

Thank you so much for reading this chapter, whenever you did so. I hope you enjoyed it despite its introspective tone for the most part. I hope the swallow references and the telegram made up for it. Jack might have been on the background for a little as Phryne went on with her sleuthing but not for long and particularly not after the realisation that hit her in the last chapter.

Now for some historical (and other) details:

\- Provence: The first is a geographical region and historical province of southeastern France, with a particular cultural and linguistic identity that still lives on, especially in the interior. (Not to mention such a gorgeous place - from what I see in pictures, I still haven't had the chance to go there yet). The administrative region of Provence-Alps-Côte-d'Azur was created in 1982 and includes Provence, plus the territory of the Comtat Venaissin around Avignon, the eastern portion of the Dauphiné, and the former county of Nice. Given this, Juan Les Pins and Antibes wouldn't exactly 'be part' of the Provence in 1929, but given its cultural ties and the Occitan/Provençal language - more on that later - it doesn't seem that far-fetched to have Amadèu considering it so in a way.

\- Occitan/Provençal: The Provence bit above may seem complicated, but brace yourself for the following - Occitan can also be called Provençal or Langue d'Oc/ Languedoc and is a Romance language spoken in Southern France, the Occitan Valleys and Guardia Piemontese in Italy, the Aran Valley in Spain, and in Monaco, overlapping with the area known as Occitane, which itself derives from Roman regions like the Aquitaine.

Yet, there are differences in how the language is spoken in these regions. Some linguists defend that Occitan is a family of languages with similarities (limousin, auvergnat, gascon, languedocian, provençal, dauphinois, and alpine-provençal) while others stand for the idea that they're so similar those changes make them dialects of the same language and not something different altogether. (Add also differences inside these smaller units because you have provençal-maritime and provençal interieur, for instance). Most of these names are connected to the region where they're spoken, but the barriers aren't that rigid - people move, after all, and Occitan's medieval ancestor developed from the 'Vulgar Latin' from the Roman soldiers and traders to the local populations.

It was an administrative and juridical language concurrent to Latin from the Early Middle Ages, usually called Provençal or Langue d'Oc when framed in this time period, and was also used for a rich cultural production and high culture, namely through the troubadours across the European courts with their courtly love poems and the language spreading throughout European cultivated circles (Donat provençal, from the 12th century, was the first grammar of a modern European language) up to Frédéric Mistral being awarded the Literature Nobel Prize in 1904, for a work written in Provençal. Despite the growing influence of French over the centuries, particularly in light of Occitania being conquered by French Kings from the 13th to the 17th centuries and the fact that nobles and the bourgeoisie began to learn it while the 'regular people' continued to speak Occitan and, in 1593, French being imposed as the language of administration, a strong feeling of national identity against the occupier helped keep it alive.

Confusing-slash-interesting enough? In 1854, Frédéric Mistral and other Provençal writers founded the Félibrige, a literary and cultural association to defend and promote Occitan languages and literature. In the attempt at an Occitan standard, they set themselves to restore the Provençal language and codify its orthography- searching for a 'purer' form of it in the countryside Provençal. This opens the door to a 'conflict' regarding how to write in Provençal: la Norme Mistralienne - looking to be closer to phonetics and avoiding many distortions between the spoken and the written word - and La Norme Classique - also from the 19th century which proposes a converging writing for all the occitan dialects mentioned a couple of paragraphs above.

From 1881 to 1886 (officially at least, because unofficially this lasted for much longer) speaking Occitan in school would earn one punishment in line with the ideas by minister Jules Ferry. He had made school free, secular and mandatory, and French was the only language allowed for teaching. It reduced the use of local languages considerably - particularly the Breton and the Occitan - and it lead to a period of shame about them (Actually recognised as La Vergonha by Occitan-speaking people and still a taboo topic in France because some people deny that the government was ever involved in trying to officially exclude, humiliate its speakers in school, and reject these languages from the media). Ferry's aim was apparently to have all French people understand the posted laws and regulations and also to ease things in case of war. Yet, there's even a school in Aiguatèbia, by the Pyrenees and of Catalan influence (another language derived from the 'popular' use of Latin and frowned upon) - I can't tell if it's still active or not - with a sign built in the wall saying «Parlez Français, Soyez Propre», which makes for a startling thing, considering that 'propre's first meaning is «clean» or «neat». Not to seem callous but: yikes.

Given all this, I have been going back and forth between 'Occitan' and 'Provençal' in that bit where Amadèu - itself the Occitan spelling of the name as well as ' Noguès' - explains Phryne what 'dindoleta' means. (Even as I edited the text just now I kept doing so). 'Dindoleta' I took from an on-line French - Provençal dictionary but from what I understand 'arendola' would also be acceptable.

I'm sorry for the long explanation, but now you know why I take so long to write some things and I guess I wanted to cover my basis in case I'm making a mess of it in the actual fic. You know that's how I roll. (Would it help imagining Oscar Isaac playing Amadèu?)

\- Letters and telegrams: Even today, letters from Australia to Europe take a lot of time to arrive by boat. We're talking about months, around 3, from what I read if we mean mail from the UK to Australia. Back then it wouldn't be faster and while it may seem that a lot of things have happened ever since Phryne wrote those letters back then in Chapter 2, only a couple of days have gone by in story-time. I'd say that when she wrote them, Phryne still didn't know for how long she would stay in Europe and it was also a way of dealing with her bout of homesickness that morning.

Air mail was already around in 1929 France but not for this kind of distances. It was mostly for domestic use, in fact.

Australia was linked to the rest of the world for the first time in 1872, through the Overland Telegraph which ran some 3200 km from Adelaide through to Darwin. Much easier, no?

Well, I hope you didn't find all these notes too bothersome and are looking forward to reading what's coming up for next week.

 


	22. Chapter 22

«Mlle Fisher!», M. Duval said in the loudest tone he could muster without actually screaming, making his way through the terrace towards her as swiftly as he could.

Phryne turned to him, put the half-drunken cup of tea on the table nearby and met him mid-way.

«I am terribly sorry for bothering you, but the gendarmes are at the gate», he informed, perfectly composed, despite having nearly run to her.

_Of course they were._

«Send them in. I'll wait for them closer to the woods», Phryne said with a placid smile, both making it up for the butler for his effort as well as to prepare herself to deal with the Capitaine.

M. Duval bowed his head and went on to fetch the lawmen.

Phryne looked at her hands as she clenched and unclenched them and then gazed up in the direction of the gate. The gendarmes appeared from afar, Gaillard in his navy uniform with polished buttons and polished boots and polished straps, and Rousseau in his dark suit and hat, with the bottom of his trench coat fluttering behind slightly as he walked.

Phryne's fist clenched again, but she wasn't conscious of having ordered that movement this time. Rousseau annoyed her more than what she would ever concede to anyone, including herself, but her reaction wasn't a consequence of that alone. Seeing him from a distance like that, before she could make out his features and his grey hair, conjured images of the man she missed the most. For someone else, his hat, his dark suit, and his trench coat were nothing except a hat, a dark suit, and a coat, but, for her, those garments had long become synonymous with Jack. He let go of the hat often and she had also seen him in those knitted jumpers that made him look even more wholesome, but that had come over the course of that year and she found that her mental image of Jack was intrinsically linked with the first time she had seen him at the Davis' house, as official and professional as he could be.

«Mlle Fisher», Rousseau said when he was in front of her, touching the brim of his hat as a greeting, a gesture repeated by Gaillard.

«Capitaine Rousseau», Phryne replied in a neutral fashion. _Jacques Rousseau_. Even his name seemed like a particularly cruel joke that added to that odd doppelgänger effect she wished she could avoid noticing so flagrantly. «Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard», she continued, with a slight nod of her head.

«We will be conducting a search of the grounds, so don't trouble yourself if you perceive something out of the ordinary in the area.»

«The assailant came in and out of the crime scene through the same path», Phryne said, with a certain degree of pride edging her voice, acknowledging that there was a particular gladness to derive from being ahead of the gendarmes.

«Is that so?», Rousseau said in a fashion that seemed to reflect how unoriginal such outcome was instead of any annoyance or even shame over the fact she had been the one to draw those conclusions. « I find it best to take a look nevertheless though, Gaillard», he said, summoning his subordinate with a small wave and walking into the woods.

Phryne silently followed in their steps, swallowing any resentment Rousseau's disdain could have caused. Miss Fisher's couldn't fault him exactly since she would have done the same if their roles were reversed.

«Come right after me, Gaillard», he instructed without spending a second thought on Phryne.

«Yes, sir.»

The three people walked through the narrow path, accurately pinpointed by Rousseau after a quick glance at the green barrier next to the tarpaulin, their heads moving quickly, upwards, sideways, downwards, as they searched attentively for some new clue.

Some steps deep in the middle of the trees, a silvery flash by the bottom of a trunk caught Phryne's eyes. Half-hidden underneath a patch of weeds, from afar Miss Fisher couldn't be sure it was actually something real and not some illusion caused by the intense concentration or the slight resurgence of the feeling of being overwhelmed by the realisation that had pushed her away that morning, but she didn't say a word until it was within her reach. Rousseau and Gaillard continued walking and searching, describing the same course she had traced already, oblivious to the fact that she no longer accompanied them, but she didn't call or try to detain them, crouching down, wrapping her hand on the end of her scarf and stretching it to the bright, ribbed rectangle. A lighter. Not too old nor forgotten or tossed long ago _,_ judging by the lack of rust and the inscription that could be clearly read when Phryne lifted the cap. _Eddie._ Miss Fisher got up to her feet and ran the back of her hand over her forehead. It was a well-made, elegant lighter, hardly the kind of thing that would be carried by some common thief. The knot in Phryne's throat tightened again but she took a deep breath to steady her mind. She had promised herself that she would work and so she would do. Eddie. At first sight, it didn't seem to mean anything, but maybe it was covertly convicting one of the people inside that house. She heard the rustling of leaves on the earthy ground and turned to the direction the sond came from.

Rousseau and Gaillard appeared soon after and the expression on the Capitaine's face seemed to betray that he was trying to parse if Phryne had found whatever she was holding or was attempting to plant it.

«This was on the floor», said Phryne. «Here», she pointed to the place where the lighter had once laid. If the gendarmes hadn't shown up and she hadn't been held back by her doubts, she would have concealed it in her pocket so she could analyse it more closely and perhaps even link it to its original owner, but since it hadn't been possible, there was no other option than share that snipped of information.

Rousseau approached her and took a long look at the lighter, still on Phryne's hand.

«Do you recognise it?»

«I don't think so», she replied, looking at it again, as if to be sure that she had never seen it.

«Is everyone home?»

«It's possible since it's rather early.»

«Gaillard, go inside and gather all the guests and staff but don't disclose much information».

«Shouldn't they get a lawyer?», asked Phryne in face of a diligence that she considered verged on criminal procedure instead of witness collaboration alone.

«It will be just a conversation but people are obviously at ease to ask for a lawyer if they find it necessary. Would you like to send for one, Mlle Fisher?», said Rousseau, undoing the small amount of goodwill Phryne had allowed him due to his displays of competence.

«Not for the moment, no, Capitaine.»

«Very well. I am going to need this anyway. May I?», he said, taking the lighter off the palm of Phryne's hand and putting it in the envelope he had produced from the inside pocket of his coat.

«At risk of sounding repetitive, I remind you that I would never withhold evidence from the police», she replied, mentally adding _without a proper reason_ to those words.

«I am sure we will meet later, Mlle Fisher», he said, touching the brim of his hat as a parting gesture this time and leaving her behind to go to the house.

Phryne didn't follow right after him this time. He would need a bit to get people ready for his questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: I wasn't sure if I would be able to post this tomorrow and decided to anticipate it. It's more case-based again, but I hope you still enjoyed it. Phryne has a job to do, after all, and she'll do it.
> 
> Well, I guess that's it for this time. A new chapter is scheduled to be posted on Wednesday. Reading and feedback are appreciated as always. Have a nice day.


	23. Chapter 23

Ten anxious faces looked at Rousseau from around the table. The gendarme was standing proudly at its head, in the place once occupied by William, while everyone else had taken up their spots and M. Duval, Mathilde, and Mme. Leblanc were near the opposite wall.

«Thank you for joining me. I am sorry for keeping you away from your breakfast but this won't take long. I just have to ask if someone recognises this», he continued, taking an envelope from his coat and picking the lighter out of it. He spoke calmly, as if that reunion was nothing more than a minor inconvenience in the schedule of those people and he had taken upon himself to reduce it to insignificance.

Phryne scanned the features of the people in the room. At first, it seemed that there was little to discern below the combination of surprise and the clear acknowledgement that every gesture was under scrutiny and they wanted to give away as little as possible, as if they were unsure of what was expected of them.

But a more thorough look revealed that it wasn't that simple. Una was still adrift and had to make a great deal of effort to pay attention when someone addressed her but a glimmer lit up her eyes upon the news. Philip was sombre and dignified, apparently unmoved by what he was hearing. For her part, Caroline was also quiet yet Phryne detected a certain tension in the way she held her head.

Gaillard and Rousseau searched for cues as well, but while they seemed to remain as collected and professional as before the reveal of the lighter, Miss Fisher found a hint of theatricality in the way the Capitaine talked afterwards, meant to elicit further responses:

«This has the word 'Eddie' engraved and was found very close to the murder scene.»

Those words made little impression on the people in the room except for raised eyes towards the gendarme. Nola still cared after everyone but the tiredness Phryne had worried about seemed to have caught up with her and she sat demurely with slumped shoulders. Elliott tapped his fingers very lightly, both to dispel the longing for a cigarette and the irritation building inside him. Apart from a brief slip from which she quickly recovered, Joséphine was laboriously calm, with a studied posture and placidness over her face. Alphonse was usually aloof and after taking a look at the gendarmes and the lighter now on the table top, he seemed to focus on a point of the Picabia hanging on the wall behind Rousseau.

«I noticed a significant number of ashtrays around, but since no one seems to have lost their lighter and M. Montgomery never carried one, it may belong to the killer», the capitaine said after a solemn pause.

M. Duval stood stoically as it became someone in his position but there was a flash of alarm on his face. Mathilde raised her hands at waist level but drew them down, suddenly conscious of where she was, while Mme. Leblanc couldn't avoid releasing a gasp.

Yet, but for that, silence continued to fill every corner of the room. It had a different edge to it though, now that people had moved their effort from keeping a neutral expression to avoiding looking at each other and most of them seemed bent on shrinking themselves to a point where even the faintest brush with the people beside would be completely impossible.

«Well, we will be carrying further diligences but please feel free to contact us I case you remember anything.»

The houseguests and the staff started to leave the room orderly, like schoolchildren after meeting the headmaster. Phryne was delaying her exit in order to observe their reactions to the brief moment when they were relieved from the inquisitive gaze of the gendarmes, but quickly scurried through when she saw Rousseau talking to M. Duval and caught the world 'jardinier' .

Phryne walked swiftly through the open terrace doors. A newsboy cap bobbed by the row of pine trees that edged the property on the left. Miss Fisher moved towards the bent figure working in the kitchen garden.

«M. Gendron?»

The man stopped digging around in the lettuce bed at his knees and turned to Miss Fisher. She guessed he was around 50 years old but he had the weathered look of someone used to spending most of his awake hours outdoors so he might be younger.

«Can I help you, Madame?», he asked in French, raising to his feet and wiping his hands on the front of his trousers before lifting the cap off his head. He wore a rough white shirt under a grey waistcoat, and worn but well-polished boots.

«I think you can, M. Gendron. I am Phryne Fisher, I've been a guest of Mme et M. Montgomery. Could I take a look at the garden shed?»

She put her best smile forward, wishing the man would reply quickly. Rousseau would appear around the corner making a similar inquiry any minute now. She had thought about pursuing that idea before considering that strychnine could be used as a pesticide, but her unforeseen reaction that morning had delayed it.

«I suppose so», replied M. Gendron, in an unsteady tone, rubbing his hands on each other.

«I know it sounds like a very odd request, but I am investigating M. Montgomery's murder and I think there may be a clue in there».

«I have nothing to do with that. M. Montgomery was a good boss», said the gardener defensively, his extraordinarily blue eyes hardening.

«I am not implying your involvement, M. Gendron», Phryne said calmly.

«You're not Police», he said, still unsure about whether he should lead this woman to the shed. He recognised her after having seen her from a far a couple of times, but he wasn't confident about letting her probe around.

«It's true. But I am a private detective and Mme Montgomery has asked me to investigate alongside the gendarmerie».

Phryne knew it was an illusion, for the moment at least, but she could almost hear the soles of Rousseau and Gaillard's shoes on the terrace.

« If that's the case… This way please, Madame.» He gave a little nod and escorted her to the little stone structure where the garden utensils and the tools were kept.

Its inside might not be very spacious, but it was well-organized. A work table had been placed near the window in a way that allowed to move around it, by a small cabinet and a board to which hammers, saws, pliers, spanners, and screwdrivers of different sizes were attached by nails and hooks. Against the wall on the right of the door, there were two cupboards with shelves at different heights to accommodate shears, trowels, rakes, and pruners, and the shovels rested on the large seed chest on the floor.

What Phryne was looking for turned out to be on a shelf slightly above eye-level. A shabby cabinet painted in white with a rough drawing of skull and bones in red and «DANGER» written in equally bold letters.

«Is this always open?», Phryne asked, after noticing that there were no signs of a lock.

«Yes. There are no children around and it says there that it's dangerous», M. Gendron said in a very matter-of-fact tone.

Miss Fisher searched quickly, her fingers moving deftly through the bottles and flasks until she found a squat glass container capped by a cork stopper with an eye bolt for an easier utilisation labelled «Strychnine – Poison» put near the back of the cabinet.

«Do you remember if this was that far behind?», she asked, trying to keep a neutral tone of voice, and picking it up with the end of her scarf so she wouldn't compromise possible fingerprints left.

«I don't know», replied M. Gendron with a shrug, «I don't keep them in a particular order.»

«Very well… But do you notice any change to the amount in the bottle though?»

«I always draw a little line on the label with a pencil when I use it».

Phryne levelled the container and turned it towards the door. The quantity inside fell below the last line drawn. Those were faint traces and could easily be missed if someone wasn't aware of how the gardener kept an eye on the chemicals under his charge.

«Could it have something to do with M. Montgomery's death?», said M. Gendron, with disbelief in his voice.

«Perhaps».

«It's a pity», He paused. « He was a good man. Always polite and amiable». «A couple of days ago, I think I heard him argue with someone but I don't even know if he was him for sure. I've been working here since the family took the house and I never heard him raise his voice». His initial standoffishness had given way to emotion.

«Do you happen to know what they were talking about?», asked Phryne, trying to infuse her words with a calmness opposite to the dizzying rhythm of the thoughts in her mind.

«No, it was in English, but they repeated 'mani' many times. It means 'argent', doesn't it?»

«It does mean 'money'. Did you see who was talking to M. Montgomery?»

«Unfortunately, I didn't. It was none of my business, so I kept working. They left soon anyway.»

«Mlle Fisher. There's no smoke without fire, isn't that what they say? Let's hope you don't get burned».

Rousseau was by the door, with Gaillard standing behind as usual.

«I would be able to ditch the flames, but I wouldn't mind if it were the case since I may be holding the murder weapon, _Capitaine_. One of them, at least, I mean».

Phryne didn't even attempt to hide the triumph in her tone this time. The leads were starting to come up and, more importantly, make sense, and while she didn't know yet who it was, someone had argued with William over money. It was hardly an original motive and it didn't narrow down the suspects that much, but it was a better start than what they had just a couple of minutes ago.

«Is the shed open at all times?», Rousseau asked the gardener, looking at Phryne with disdain tensing his jaw.

«While I'm working, yes. I get the key from M. Duval when I arrive and return it at the end of the day».

«Even when you're working on the other side of the garden?»

«Yes», replied M. Gendron, holding his cap tightly.

«Take that, Gaillard», instructed Rousseau. The Maréchal des Logis-Chef swooped in and, with a gloved hand, retrieved the bottle from Miss Fisher's possession, putting it in an envelope afterwards.

«Was this discussion carried between M. Montgomery and a man or a woman?», asked the capitaine.

«I think it was a man but they were trying to be quiet, despite the animosity».

«Merci, M. Gendron».

Rousseau gave a little nod and walked away from the shed, but as the gardener went back to his work and Phryne turned to go to the house, he came back and said:

«I wonder what kind of tricks you employed to postulate strychnine as the cause of death, Mlle Fisher, but I must take this to the lab before I devote my attention to it, even if I'm sure I would discover it quite quickly».

«I know it must not be pleasant to hear but you couldn't be any more mistaken, _Capitaine_. I got to the body first, remember?», said Phryne, that particular smugness she saved for this occasions drenching every word.

«Good day, Mlle Fisher», he bid, steelier than ever.

«Good day, _Capitaine_ Rousseau», Phryne smilingly said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'm sorry this chapter has come up later than usual but I couldn't get to this earlier. I know it's heavily case-based, but I want to believe that there are some instances of Phryne being (at least close to, hopefully) 'Phryne' and sassing Rousseau in the way.
> 
> I hope people liked this chapter and want to read what is lined up for tomorrow. Thank you for reading and for your feedback.


	24. Chapter 24

The gendarmes went back to Antibes and Phryne made up her mind to go to the terrace. She had already had breakfast but was keen on nibbling on a biscuit as she continued her observation of her friends and, for the moment, suspects.

Everyone was sitting at the table, including Elliott and Alphonse, who were usually the first to rise and dive into their work. Yet, their stay didn't seem to be the reason why the seating arrangements had changed for the most part.

Manners had dictated for long that couples should not sit next to each other or across the table, except for the hosts, and an unconscious awareness of these rules had normally lead the way they distributed themselves around the table. Today though, Philip and Caroline were side by side as were Joséphine and Alphonse. Una was still avoiding the head of the table, with Pavlov on her lap.

Phryne was walking towards the table when she saw Elliott suddenly get to his feet, coffee splashing from the cup in front of him onto the cloth and onto his crunched napkin, a lit cigarette between two fingers of his left hand.

«I can't believe the police comes in with a possible lead and no one says or does anything, preferring to sit down eating breakfast as if the nothing had happened. » His voice rose above the restrained and mournful silence that seemed to hover above the house.

«It's the first inkling of a clue that we have and no one seems to care that a friend, our host, was murdered, and, for all we know, the killer may even be seating at this very table», he continued.

«Elliott», said his sister, trying to calm him.

«Don't do that, Nola. It's true. Apart from Una and Phryne, and me no one seems to give a damn.»

«That's not fair», Nola said, her voice calm but hurt, «in our own way we all care and we are all upset by the lack of progress in the investigation». She was still seating, but had straightened her back meanwhile. «I know you are beside yourself, but that's not a reason or an excuse to make such a spectacle».

«And what have you done?», said Philip, seeming tired of Elliott's accusations. «Your words sound rather sanctimonious if I may say so. You didn't come forward either to acknowledge the lighter or to say that you had never laid your eyes on it». He got up from his chair, standing even taller than Elliott.

«I can go search for the policeman right in this moment if it would make you happier», said Elliott.

Their fellow houseguests seemed to have stopped breathing, each one's attention fully employed in those two figures and the expectation of what might happen next.

«There's no need to do so», replied Philip, dignifiedly, «that is not the point. As your sister said, we are all perturbed by William's death and grieving him. There's no right or wrong way to do it and this isn't a competition. What you said is disrespectful to everyone here but I think I'm not being too presumptuous when I say we are willing to overlook it due to how close you were to my stepfather and how your reaction is likely out of frustration and mourning. There's no need to burden the police with speculation and we should let them do their job».

«There's no point. I'm going upstairs», Elliot said with a shrug and leaving the table.

Philip sat down. Caroline covered his hand with hers and he looked at her, smiling reassuringly. Nola laid back in her chair and looked instinctively at Joséphine, who had meanwhile lit a cigarette and whose eyes were tensely focusing on the lavender nearby. She composed her features quickly enough, but Phryne knew that the slight had not only hurt Nola but confused her as well. Alphonse held on to the fork but still hadn't picked any of the pieces of fresh fruit on his plate. Even Pavlov appeared to be trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened as he shook his little head. Elliott's exit had curtailed that disruption to the carefully curated tableau, but it had been a disruption nevertheless and people seemed to have been thrown into a mist of uncertainty about what to do next.

Phryne wondered about which of those men might be in such need of money they would ask William for it and whose request would turn into that fiery of an argument.

Alphonse was under the Montgomery patronage and, from what Miss Fisher had gathered, had no family fortune and the fame and projection he enjoyed in Paris did not translate itself into the well-off life he seemed to appreciate. On the other hand, Elliott came from money but the small monthly allowance received by the Murrow siblings from their family wasn't enough to maintain his lifestyle and even considering that his writing paid rather well, there were times when he spent more than what he had and his current creative difficulties could not be forgotten. The Montgomerys might be giving him room and board here but he had other expenses and hadn't exactly shown any signs of being economical, either due to still deep pockets or shame.

Philip's situation was harder to parse. The Van Astens were an old family, rooted in New York since the 17th century, he had attended good and prestigious schools, done a great deal of travelling, and had a high post at J.P Morgan & Co. but was all that privilege the relic of a fortune gone by or had he inherited a significant legacy first from his father and then from his mother? Had everything been settled at once between Philip and William upon Adeline's death? William was an heir himself, from a pulp and paper family, but she wasn't completely sure he would renounce something that had been bequeathed to him.

But their personal circumstances might not be the sole reason for such a drastic measure. Despite the fact that the French cinema industry wasn't as booming as the American one, Joséphine had a famous name and earnings to afford her expensive tastes and maybe that had threatened Alphonse and bruised his sense of self-worth. A motive like that could perhaps seem weak but the male ego could be extremely fragile and Phryne had seen the terrible consequences a blow to it could inflict.

Caroline was a Besselink, which also meant old money and a grand way of living and they hadn't been married for long, had they? Maybe it had turned out too much to bear for Philip. If Nola was in financial difficulties, she would source the money herself and not have her brother intercede for her, but maybe Elliott's current parting from Diana Hamilton had some financial roots?

«Hello», Phryne said when she got near the table as if she hadn't witnessed Elliott's outburst. She took the now vacant chair next to Nola and poured herself some tea from the pot Mathilde had brought just a few minutes ago. «I was thinking we could go for a swim. It's hotter today and I think it might help us improve our mood as much as possible, that is».

It was as if no one had heard her.

«I would like that », Caroline said at last, with the first genuine smile Miss Fisher had seen on her face for days.

«It will be lovely, I'm sure», said Phryne, «Nola?»

Miss Murrow shook her head, as if suddenly awaken by the mention of her name.

«Thank you for the invitation, dear, but I think I'm going to stay inside for now. Besides, Una may need me.»

Phryne could hardly remember having ever seen Nola this dispirited and it was kind unsettling, to be honest. She touched her friend's shoulder and Nola smiled weakly for an instant, but then grew withdrawn again.

Una kept running her left hand over Pavlov's back while she said:

« You can go if you want, Nola, I will lay down for a bit, but I will join you later, Phryne, if you don't mind».

«Not at all. I shall be glad when you do?, said Phryne, genuinely pleased. «What about you, Mr Van Asten and M. Pernot?»

«I am afraid I have work to do. I am waiting for some telegrams from Paris and I doubt I'd be much of an addition to your party», he said, nodding respectfully nevertheless.

«M. Pernot?»

«I have work to do as well. The mural isn't finished yet».

«I will go too», said Joséphine eventually.

«It will be delightful», Phryne said, smiling brightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: I hope you enjoyed the chapter that closes this week. If everything goes according to the plan, a new chapter is scheduled for Tuesday, as usual.
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your feedback.


	25. Chapter 25

The women were having such a nice time by the sea they had even asked M. Duval to serve lemonade and sandwiches by the rocks instead of coming up to the house for lunch.

William's death sent them into silence from now and then, but they talked gaily for most of the time, sharing little anecdotes about their lives or talking about the books they were reading. At some point, between two sea dips, the conversation lead to disclosing the way they had been involved in the war effort. Phryne had driven ambulances, Caroline and Una had made bandages and knitted socks, Joséphine had performed little plays or sung in fund-raisers. They were making these confidences when Nola joined them. She was still far from her usually joyous self, but she tried to be pleasant and charming.

«Let the boys sulk at home», she announced, putting down her towel on the empty lounger by Joséphine's, who chose that exact moment to take a swim.

«Welcome!», greeted Phryne, raising her sunglasses from her eyes.

«You are making me feel self-conscious now», replied Nola, not self-conscious in the least.

«How is the water?», she said, taking off her beach pyjamas, revealing a navy swimsuit with white pipping underneath.

«Quite pleasant, in fact», said a slightly relaxed Una, despite the dark circles under her eyes and the dull tint to her pale skin. She was still relying on Dr. Hubert's tablets to sleep through the night and dutifully took the elixir he had recommended for strength at breakfast, but was trying her best not to get overcome by grief even if she was stricken to her core and anguished over the fact that William was still laying inside an icebox at the morgue instead of having the funeral that befitted him. Sometimes her eyes brimmed with tears unexpectedly and she held tightly to her wedding ring, still around her finger. She missed William as deeply as she had loved him and had never thought he could be snatched away from life, from her like this. Before, in the darkest hours of the night when they were lying side by side, his warm breath rustling her hair, and his arms around her, she had even (selfishly, she acknowledged) wished for her to die first, from the oldest of ages after a life well lived with him. He had loved Adeline and yet survived her loss, but Una hadn't been so sure of her ability to cope with his. There were some moments when she could almost swear she had seen him smile at her from the window of their bedroom as she looked up from the garden, to find that it was nothing more than the funny way sunlight had hit the glass. She had always known he wasn't actually there, but the realisation crushed her nevertheless. Now that it had been chosen for her, she did her best to get up from the bed. Taking care of Pavlov had been a start. The dog sensed that something was wrong and missed William in his own way as he sniffed around the house, yet he still had to eat, and drink, and walk. Many people had offered to do that for her but Una had declined so she would have something she must do. It helped, little by little, but there were times when looking at him shattered her heart once the remembrance of the lovely spring afternoon in which William had come home to their Paris apartment with a furry ball only slightly larger than his hand flashed in her mind.

«Let me see for myself then», said Nola, carefully walking down the steps that lead to the sea and immersing herself. She swam as she moved, elegantly, a clean intention in each of her gestures. She had been Roedean's informal swimming champion, crowned year after year in light of how she won every race proposed during the trips to the beach below the school and it still showed, in spite of the differences between the English Channel and the Mediterranean.

Phryne followed her example and swam to catch up to her when they were away enough from the group so they wouldn't be heard.

«What's the matter with you and Joséphine?»,

«What do you mean? I've been tired, that's all. The shock, taking care of Una, which I gladly do. It's taking a toll on me», Nola replied, her arms moving up and down in the water to level her.

«I do not doubt that, but I've known you for some years and I'm rather observant as you may have been noticed. Besides, she has been acting rather cold towards you since this morning», said Phryne, doing the same motion. She would rather have that conversation in firm land, but despite Chateau Ondine and its' grounds spaciousness it was troublesome to find somewhere where they wouldn't be disturbed.

«I honestly don't know. She seems to have cut me off, just like that after Rousseau showed up with the lighter».

«It does seem abrupt.»

«Tell me about it», Nola said with a sigh.

«Is the lighter hers?», asked Phryne. It could be just a coincidence but the timing seemed too much of one for her.

«I don't think so. At least I have never seen her use it either here or in Paris.»

«You knew each other before, then?», a certain theory started to grown in Miss Fisher's mind.

«We move in some of the same circles. You know how these things are. Everyone knows everyone», she said with something akin to a shrug as possible as it was given their odd position.

«She's the person you talked about at the casino in Cannes the other night, isn't she?»

«I would like to consider myself a decent enough liar yet I must know I'm completely powerless against you», Nola said with a wan smile.

«Oh, you have!», said Phryne, laughing lightly, «If you hadn't fallen out, I think I would have taken a bit more to find out. But how did it happen?»

«We met in Paris and we became friends but there was also a certain attraction drawing us in. We had never acted on it yet something changed here, we gave in, and…and I think I'm falling in love with her.»

Nola's eyes welled up, seeming even bluer with the tears. She lifted her right hand and tried to clean under them with the back of her wrist, but didn't insist much. The salt water would certainly burn.

«And Joséphine?». Phryne said, coming closer to her friend and holding her arm to support her with her own movements in the water.

«From what she told me, her relationship with Alphonse is just for show now. They liked the attention it brought themselves and there was no need to make a big show of it nevertheless. For the time being, it was good enough for both and there was no illusion whatsoever for either of them.»

The tears which had once threated to fall were now running down Nola's cheeks, and it was harder for her to keep afloat. The sea was stretching languidly, gently pushing them to the shore.

«Let's go to those rocks. They don't seem very sharp».

Nola accepted silently and swan carefully towards the blocks Phryne had suggested. Once she was seated, Miss Murrow shook her hands to get rid of most salt water and covered her face with them.

Phryne wanted to keep the due distance considering the on-going doubts about the identity of the killer but she couldn't be indifferent to her friend's pain and just sit still. She had seen Nola cry over Fiona and Robbie a couple of times but this was something more visceral.

«This will sound like the most foolish thing to say, but have you already tried to talk to her?»

«I did in the small window of time after leaving the dining room after Rousseau came up with the lighter, but she just said that she couldn't and that it had all been a mistake.»

Repeating those words which had seared her soul made her flinch as if they were striking her again.

« I am so sorry», said Phryne, pulling Nola towards her. This seemed to unleash all the emotions Nola had been keeping inside herself, from mourning William to looking after Una to Joséphine's rejection, and she cried onto Phryne's shoulder with abandonment and deep sobs that shook her. Sitting there in their bathing costumes, cap-less, with their dark hair framing their faces, Phryne and Nola looked like the teenage girls exchanging confidences they had once been.

«This is ridiculous», Nola said after a while, her voice still sluggish from crying.

«Non-sense. Things hurt and we reel from that even if sometimes we wish we wouldn't but there isn't much we can do about that. »

Phryne's chest tightened a little as she spoke those words and they echoed in her mind. Things hurt but they also glowed, and being in the midst of both was equally unfitting. 'Scratchy', she found was a better way to describe it, actually.

«We were in the cellar, hiding like youths that night. That's why Mathilde had trouble finding me», Nola said, «we heard some commotion and came upstairs to the kitchen to try to figure out what was happening.»

Phryne didn't reply this time. It justified why their alibis had seemed so fragile yet she couldn't dismiss them as suspects this soon, as much as it pained her, especially towards Nola.

«I don't particularly care for age, but I sort of felt that I was too old for this 'being swept off your feet 'thing. Fun dalliances and maybe a sprinkle of connection yes, but that would be it and I didn't complain at all. But now this…». Nola shrugged and sighed although a small, wistful smile shone on her face.

Phryne remained in silence, despite feeling about to say that sometimes it felt as if someone tremendously special came along and we started choosing differently. No one had forced us, we hadn't changed, it's just what we thought made sense didn't anymore.

She moved her legs and feet in the turquoise sea in which they were immersed.

«We say we are ready for everything and yet we end up being surprised from now and then nevertheless», she said eventually, loathing the platitudes contained in those words, but lacking something more original to add.

«I guess», Nola replied simply, apparently energy-less to say something deeper too. «Well, I better get in the water before I burn more than Mme Leblanc's crème brûlée. It's too much of a painful and too much of an unbecoming look to strive for. Are you staying or going?»

«Go ahead. I'll join you in a minute. Not all of us can be a swimming prodigy, so I'll need a bit longer to recuperate», Phryne said lovingly. Besides, she also had the feeling that Nola wanted to be alone for a while after having confessed what had been burdening her for long.

«See you back at the house then», Nola said, swimming away.

xxx

Phryne pulled her legs up from the spray, wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin on them. The water shone like a gemstone in the sun and the waves broke softly at her feet.

She could see houses arranged around the bay like a complex set and as if they had been placed by hand. Behind her, the roofs of Chateau Ondine rose proudly like a bud springing from the cliff. A couple of seagulls cackled above. From her left came the trail of women's conversation. Phryne couldn't make out their words, but they seemed to be in good spirits, considering their laughter and there was excitement in the way their voices climbed in air. It was quite a pleasant place to be, in fact. The loveliness of the scene drew a light veil that could almost make one forget the gruesome happening that had struck that idyll right in its centre.

Phryne took a deep breath, letting the sea breeze take hold of her. She stretched her arms and turned around to look at the assortment of rocks behind her. As much as she appreciated the results of humankind's perseverance and skill, she found wondrous the way the elements and time had shaped a coastline that had stood there for centuries, millennia even, with little nooks and small coves. Sometimes she could see fish swimming around the rocks or limpets and other mollusks tightly gripping to the stone, but the flash of something light-coloured that peaked from the groove between two rocks, swaying with the waves, didn't seem to belong there.

Miss Fisher, always ever curious, carefully climbed the block she had been seating on and made her way to where the long shard swayed with the waves, pondering on the best spots to put her feet without cutting them on the sharp edges.

Holding on to a little notch, she bent down, the back of her half-open hand glistening like a shell, as she dipped it in the water and grabbed the strange object. Phryne was in too of a precarious position to analyse it thoroughly, but she could feel the touch of some textile apparently wrapped around something solid. She tucked it under the left strap of her bathing costume and started to the rock on which she had been talking to Nola, tracing the steps she had taken just some minutes ago.

She slipped as she put her foot on the last stone and breath escaped her - she'd rather not break her neck there- , but Phryne was able to gather equilibrium back and cautiously assumed a seating position, still taking deep breaths to catch up.

When she was settled at last, Phryne retrieved the object from where she had put it and looked at it. The corners had been tucked to keep whatever was in it in place. It was yellowed from having been in the water for a while but it was possible to discern the crimson limits around the pinkish stains that blemished it, and which became more pronounced as she unrolled it. On her palm, rested now a letter opener of elegant lines, probably made of steel, judging by the lack of rust, but with some dark specks along the pointed blade which Phryne quickly recognised as traces of blood and what seemed a partial fingerprint above the place where the handle and the blade met.

Another piece had fallen into the place. There was no type of knife in the cutlery drawers that matched the comparatively small incisions made in William's body, but Phryne would bet her Hispano that they would be the most perfect companion to the sharp object on her hand. Since she had never paid much attention to the letter openers around the house except for the one in her room, she couldn't say immediately from where it was missing exactly, but she had investigated enough crimes and had a keen sense of logic and intelligence to believe that it had come from the house. A weapon of chance like it befitted a spur-of-the-moment murder (as much as lurking in the shadows before inflicting the fatal blows could be considered so).

Yet, as exciting as this finding could be, the embroidered initials on the farther corner let out that a part of that set-up was nothing but the clumsy attempt of a ruse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evidence continues to pile up as well as other revelations and I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this week.
> 
> So, this is it for today. A new chapter is supposed to go up tomorrow. Thank you for reading.


	26. Chapter 26

Hiding behind the excuse of needing to use the restroom, Phryne had returned to the house and was now sitting on the edge of her bathtub pondering on what to do next.

She wondered if the person who had wrapped the letter opener in that particular handkerchief was aware of the immense flaw in their plan. Probably not. While Phryne had to acknowledge some credit to the idea of attempting to throw the attention off them if the unpredictable currents brought the murder weapon ashore, this action could acquit instead of convicting. Confronting the owner of the handkerchief was sort of pointless for the moment and she thought it was too soon to brandish this new finding around the house, even if it might awake some despair in the killer. What were the odds of a small package being thrown in the sea, carried back by the waves, and getting stuck in some nearby rocks and someone like Phryne coming across it during a fortuitous swim ? It wasn't completely outrageous but it wasn't that likely of a thing either.

Phryne was willing to bid her time before doing something further. Besides, the question of possible fingerprints on the strychnine bottle was still up in the air and she thought it best to wait for Rousseau's news on that front (or more like wait for the right moment when to pry that information out of him) and keep the letter opener to herself for now, even considering the relevant pieces of evidence it presented.

Miss Fisher wrapped the letter opener again and hid it under the sink, secured by the pipes coming out of the wall and which fed the faucets. It could dry without being found for a day at least, since there was no cleaning left for Mathilde to do that afternoon.

She guessed that if her room had a letter opener on the desk, so would the others, and she set herself to find if that was the case, taking advantage of the fact that the women were out. Phryne still had to ditch the men, but she would dwell on it when the time came.

Tiptoeing across the hall, she reached Nola's door. Phryne tapped lightly just to check if her friend hadn't returned meanwhile but hoped she wouldn't be heard by anyone else who might be on that floor.

She was greeted with silence and so got in. The bed was made but the room had that cluttered look she remembered from the time they had shared accommodation in Roedean despite all the rules and supervision enforced. It wasn't as if her friend's clothes, books, beauty products, and other belongings were scattered all around the room but there were many of them. On the vanity, on the armchair, over the wardrobe, notebooks by the bed and on the desk.

This presentation forced her to be both thorough and careful because while it seemed disorganised, Phryne knew Nola was well aware of her things' whereabouts, way better than expected. But she didn't need to move much. A letter opener with a malachite handle was placed on top of a pile of the unopened mail M. Duval had brought in that morning and a list titled «Phryne Books» with about 10 names Miss Fisher guessed belonged to writers Nola would like to work with, next to a mother-of-pearl fountain pen Phryne had given her for her birthday the previous year. Her friend was going to name her venture partly after her and it led to a particular bitter sweetness to Phryne's ruffling through Nola's things, but she must get to the bottom of her investigation.

Not completely at ease but slightly less burdened, Phryne closed the door behind her.

Una's room was next. It was as neatly arranged as the house in an advert. Mathilde had probably dropped by to make the bed again and tidy things up after Mme Montgomery had gone to the shore. Despite the open condolence telegrams on the desktop, there was nothing to open the envelopes with in sight. Phryne's stomach tightened again but she found it on the middle drawer of the desk, right under the table top.

 _Thou art my most beloved,_ was engraved on the blade. It could hardly be considered proof, but Phryne believed that if Una had been the one to kill her husband, doing so with a tool with such devoted words would add a touch of irony she found Una would have in herself, even if it meant risking her own imprisonment.

She recognised it was premature, but she grew a little disenchanted. Phryne had always had some trouble with the more boring steps of an investigation and without Dot and Jack by her side, that boredom seemed even more pronounced. It was a necessary procedure, but she wished she had someone who could rummage through some of the rooms for her.

Yet, her despair wasn't so strong as to call for Rousseau (she might call for Gaillard if it didn't entail his boss getting wind of it though) and she put her ear to Elliott's door. There was an apparent silence inside but she could hear the faint rustling of someone turning in bed.

She knew doing so would draw attention to her presence in the house when she was supposedly outside, but she knocked nevertheless.

«Come in.»

Elliott's voice sounded clearer than what she expected and when she opened the door she found him lying on his bed fully awaken and in his day clothes apart from the jacket and the tie, squashing the end of a cigarette on a large glass ashtray.

«I would hate to hear you had died burned in your own bed», Phryne said. Back then when they were together, his smoking like this had always been a point of contention between them, and he had only complied when she had been there by his side.

«I'm careful, I promise», how many times had she heard him say that, «And it's not like I'm drunk this time», he added.

Phryne chose not to address his last remark. There was no trace of the work he was apparently involved in, but a tray with a plate dotted with crumbs and a glass with seeds and the dry clumps of orange left on the bottom was placed next to him. A newspaper screaming «MYSTERY. NO CLUES ABOUT THE AMERICAN MILLIONAIRE'S DEATH» was folded nearby.

«Have you been here all day?» she asked from the desk, against which she was leaning on. His letter opener was serving as a paperweight on top of a thin pile of paper.

«Since I've stormed out of the terrace, you mean?», he said, straightening himself against the fluffy pillows supporting him. «I know you saw it», he lifted his hand to the edge of his collarbone peaking from under his opened shirt collar and scratched it. Phryne couldn't exactly tell of it had been necessity or nervousness.

«I did. Thank you for putting a good word for me», she said.

Elliott shrugged and looked at the ceiling. «I had to», he ended up saying, focusing back on Phryne again.

«Do you really think someone is hiding something?», Phryne asked, still by the desk. She would take his answer with a pinch of scepticism but she was interested in hearing his reasons.

«I do. It's strange and probably sounds insane but it's almost like there's a shroud of secrecy thickening the air around here. I can't say for sure who is concealing what but something isn't right.»

«You didn't come forward either», Phryne said, deliberately repeating Philip's words from that morning.

«I know. It's silly, isn't it?», he replied. Apparently, Elliott hadn't taken Phryne's observation as ganging up on him. «I have been here trying to figure out if I should drive to Antibes and talk to Rousseau even if the guy is an idiot.»

«I wouldn't advise throwing speculation at him», Phryne said, trying to keep Elliott from doing something rash, even if she was more than aware of how little she could do if he set his mind to it.

«You said you couldn't pinpoint who was doing the hiding», Phryne said, looking squarely at him, her voice soft, inviting confidence.

«And I thought you were against speculation», he replied with that knowing smile she had found so seductive when they had met all those years ago but in which she recognised a friendly playfulness now.

«I said I wouldn't advise going to Rousseau with speculation. There's a difference», said Phryne, smiling too. «I do not object to listening to speculation myself», she continued, raising an eyebrow.

Elliott's features became grave.

«Something is odd about Joséphine, Alphonse, and the Van Astens. It's like they have a secret among themselves».

«Money, perhaps?»

Part of her wanted to sit on the bed, as if that physical proximity would make him even more eager to share his doubts but she stood where she was. He could be trying to throw her off and she had to keep her distance to let him know that she was aware of the possibility. While she appreciated having smart friends, those qualities could make for quite a tiring nuisance if she suspected one might be a killer.

«They are all very quiet among their own couples and I don't think is only because they are reserved. Besides, I don't know if you noticed it but they appear to have started to look at you weirdly since Rousseau came here with the lighter. Why can't this come to an end an-»

Phryne had raised her hand, halting Elliott's words.

He looked at her with an intrigued expression and she pointed to the door.

«Mlle Fisher?», M. Duval was calling in the hall, presumably in front of the door of her own room as he knocked. «Mlle Fisher!», he repeated, his tone still polite but with an uncharacteristic agitation underneath those words.

Phryne walked to the door and opened it.

«M. Duval, what happened?», she asked, Elliott next to her.

The distress present in the butler's voice hastened his steps towards her.

«The gendarmes are here and have taken M. Pernot under arrest, searched the office, and want to search his room. There was no time to call you this time, Mademoiselle. Capitaine Rousseau has a warrant that I think won't stop even the President.»

Phryne dashed to her room, unwilling to receive the gendarmes in her bathing costume so Rousseau wouldn't condescend to her once again. Outside, the rush of men coming up the stairs was getting increasingly louder.

«They're here», Elliott said after knocking on her door and being called in by her.

«Stall them», she said, drawing a light dress over her swimsuit.

Elliott looked at loss. He might have been rambunctious once, but it didn't seem to come that easily to him now. After a small pause, that seemed even smaller due to the approaching commotion, he went out, leaving Phryne putting her shoes on.

«Capitaine Rousseau», said Miss Fisher, interruption Elliott's extremely careful reading of the warrant.

«Mlle Fisher», he said in reply, with a courteous nod, with Lapin and two other gendarmes behind him as well as the newly arrived Joséphine. «I am sure you are already aware that M. Pernot will be taken to Antibes for questioning but before we go we will be conducting a search of M. Pernot and, I understand, Mlle D'Aramitz's room. Once M. Murrow finishes analysing the warrant that grants me to do so, that is. I didn't recall he is a lawyer though». Sarcasm dripped from every word like water from a stalactite.

«Maybe someday. My family would be thrilled and I live to please», said Elliot, handing him the sheet of paper with a smile that, if Rousseau saw fit, could be easily exaggerated and gain him a trip to Antibes too for contempt.

«How kind of you, M. Murrow. Would you mind?», Rousseau said, reaching for the door handle and opening it without waiting for an answer.

The Capitaine walked ahead, with the gendarmes in tow, their hands covered by the familiar black leather gloves in order to avoid leaving fingerprints behind as they searched through drawers, wardrobes, shelves, below furniture and behind it, under Rousseau's supervision and Joséphine's stoic stare as the contents of her life were turned around in its places by strange hands with more or less ceremony. She had grown used to having maids arranging her things, but policemen rummaging through them felt close to having most of her story yelled across Juan Les Pins, Cannes, Nice, and Antibes at the same time for everyone to hear. Even without particular secrets to hide between clothes and scripts (those she preferred to sieve through the mesh of her thoughts and emotions until they were little less that a footnote she hoped she could easily hide), she felt deeply mortified.

The men were working without saying a word so far, the crushing of clothes and the clacking of books and the dragging of furniture being the only sounds stabbing the smothering silence that took over the room, but Joséphine had looked like that and been in the public eye for long to pick up on the particular glint in the eye of two of the gendarmes as they came across her lingerie and her satin sleepwear. Just imagining the remarks they were going to exchange later (because they would do so) awakened that familiar simmering anger that derived from being seen as public property, ready to be demeaned and consumed as if she were on display just because of her gender and how nature had moulded her. They hadn't reacted like that when they had reviewed Alphonse's belongings and underthings, had they?

Joséphine only wanted to make it stop, to cast those people out and regain that space to herself, wounded by that invasion and confused by Alphonse's arrest. The details she knew so far were sparse, reduced to 'strong evidence of involvement in the crime' or some other police jargon and she was trying to put together the little that she did know.

Rousseau was looking carefully at Mlle D'Aramitz's cosmetics, neatly arranged in front of the mirror on the desk. The boxes ahead of the bottles of perfume, lotion, and emulsion and lipstick, brushes and powder puffs and cotton balls to the side. Yet, there was a bottle in particular which seemed to have caught his attention. It was of a dark amber transparent glass and was labelled 'Bromide'. Phryne noticed that his eyes had widened but he seemed perfectly neutral when he turned to Joséphine and asked:

«Does this belong to you or to M. Pernot?»

The Capitaine had picked up the bottle from the desk and raised it.

«It's mine», she replied, feigning assurance as best as she could.

«And for how long have you been taking it?»

«Three or four months…», Joséphine said, her brows knitted in genuine confusion now and her eyes looking earnestly at Rousseau. «I mean, I took it while in Paris and for about a week and a half here. The sea air did me well, I guess. I started to sleep better and I stopped taking it». She continued bewildered by the question.

«How much did you take, Mlle D'Aramitz?», Rousseau asked, attempting to ascertain if the amount of medicine lacking would be coincident with that use.

«Not much. A couple of drops per night is enough if one wants to wake up next morning, which I did», Joséphine replied, her voice weakening as she realised what she had just said.

«You didn't resume once at least? Not even on the night of M. Montgomery's death?»

«No», Joséphine was somewhat frightful now, «I decided not to, neither the bromide nor Dr Hubert's tablets since I wanted to help Mme Montgomery the best I could.»

«Is it always here?»

A couple of drops per night for four months wouldn't drain nearly half the bottle.

«Yes», Joséphine replied, a slight shade of panic creeping up on her face.

«Your presence is needed in Antibes», Rousseau said, taking an envelope out of his pocket and putting the bromide container inside it after checking if it was properly sealed and wouldn't spill.

«Oh no», Joséphine let out, covering her mouth with her hands.

Elliott touched her shoulder in a comforting gesture. Apart from the gendarmes and Joséphine, only he and Phryne remained. (M. Duval liked his share of gossip, but thought it was beneath him to stand by and watch it unfold and had left).

«Why?», asked Phryne. She knew she wouldn't be able to gather much about Alphonse's arrest but maybe she could get a glimpse of what Rousseau meant to do next. If Rousseau had a warrant and Alphonse was currently being taken to Antibes instead of being politely interviewed in the study downstairs, he had to have something incredibly condemning he hadn't had before. That bromide had just been discovered and even if it might have been the one used to potentiate the lethal effect of the strychnine that had poisoned William and, while it was easily accessible, it would take an abysmal lack of insight on the part of Alphonse and/or Joséphine to keep it if they had used it to kill him.

«We must get to the bottom of this and Antibes is where the means for that are», he said to Phryne, «and, unlike for M. Pernot, this is a request and a fairly simple one, but you can have your lawyer present, if it would make you more comfortable.»

Joséphine nodded, if conflicted between clearing herself from any suspicion and perhaps incriminating Alphonse beyond repair.

The gendarmes had continued their search while that conversation had taken place but were now standing behind the Capitaine, waiting for further orders.

«Let's go back to the station», Rousseau said, over his shoulder. «You can ride with Mlle Fisher, right behind our motorcar», he said to Josephine, his tone offering a hint of generosity.

«Thank you», Joséphine said, looking at him and at Phryne.

Miss Fisher wanted to say «how magnanimous , Capitaine», but stayed silent.

Rousseau nodded and walked out of the room, leading the blue convoy of gendarmes.

«You can take my car», said Elliott.

«That's very kind of you», replied Phryne, kissing him on the cheek and walking towards her own room to get the biscuit tin box where she had hastily stored the letter opener. There was no time to wait for it to dry anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phryne's investigation as well as Rousseau's investigation are starting to bear fruit and change things immensely at Chateau Ondine. I hope these changes continue to keep you enticed and wanting to find out more.
> 
> Quick historical note: Bromide, particularly potassium bromide, was often used as sedatives in the 19th century and early 20th century. It was part of over-the-counter substances and headache remedies until as late as 1975 in the United States, when they stopped being used as ingredients due to chronic toxicity. (Thank you, Wikipedia).
> 
> Tomorrow, Phryne, Joséphine, Alphonse, and the Gendarmes will be in Antibes (but not to go to the Absinthe Bar - a reference kindly provided by Jj - unfortunately). I hope you are still interested to read what happens.


	27. Chapter 27

Joséphine hadn't said a word since they had gotten into the motorcar and Miss Fisher hadn't tried to prod her.

Seating closely against the door, still in the light-blue beach pyjamas and hiding behind her sunglasses and below the straw hat, she seemed ready to snap at any minute like a reed in strong wind.

Miss Fisher took quick glances at her from the corner of her eye as she drove, attempting to ascertain what emotions might be causing such anxiety. Fear and confusion over the last developments? Concern about Alphonse? Apprehension of what this investigation might yield? Guilt over her relationship with Nola?

The other woman chewed on the pads of her fingers, staring at some random point of the dashboard, apparently oblivious to what was around her.

«We will be reaching the gendarmerie soon», Phryne said in French, attempting to muster some reaction before she had to face Rousseau again.

«Beg your pardon?», said Joséphine weakly, as if trying her voice back after many years of silence.

«I said we are close to the gendarmerie. Are you expecting to see Alphonse soon?», said Phryne trying to distract her a little from the impending meeting with the lawmen.

«I must be by his side, mustn't I?», she replied, turning slightly to Phryne, her hand still over her mouth.

«I'm sure he will appreciate your support », Phryne said warmly. Whatever reasons were driving her, she couldn't deny that there seemed to be some sense of care for him underneath her words.

«It's the least I can do», she said in a barely audible voice and it seemed to be more aimed at herself than at Phryne.

Miss Fisher nodded as she approached the Place Guynemer, already in Antibes.

«I know it's not my place exactly but would you like to talk? You seem particularly overwhelmed», Phryne added, as if It were an after-thought and failing purposely to mention the bromide.

Joséphine replied by turning her head towards Phryne first and then to the window. It was the most dignified answer she could give her without revealing all the turmoil that agitated her own core so much she felt on the verge of throwing up; moving the least she could was the only remedy she could come up with in that moment. She tried, but Joséphine couldn't avoid replaying all the moments she thought had led to that in her head, every image and sound and touch making her burn with the increasing shame and growing terror, and yet, she couldn't regret them right away even if she had promised she would do her best to make it so. How could she have been so weak? Hadn't she paid attention to every teaching she had heard for years? Joséphine needed to get out of the motorcar. The breathing exercises she had learnt in her acting and singing classes were of no help to calm her and each jolt of the vehicle made her feel as if it was shrinking around her. She rubbed her fingers in her palms. They were clammy and uncomfortable and she wished she could take a bath to wash the feeling away, maybe stay in the water until she could feel like herself again, even if she didn't know when or if it would ever happen. The motorcar jolted again and Joséphine shuddered.

«Are you alright?», Phryne asked, trying to help Joséphine while paying attention to the poor driving skills of the driver of the milk cart ahead of her. As they had entered the town, it had cut between their car and the gendarmes'.

«Not exactly», replied Joséphine, apparently struggling for breath.

«Can you make it to the gendarmerie or do you want me to stop now? It's right at the end of that street.»

Joséphine shook her hands in front of her and her breath quickened.

Phryne put her foot down on the pedal and honked to warn people away. She had offered to stop but the street was too narrow for that, it turned out.

On the next seat, Joséphine had started to cry. Large crystal tears ran down her face and powerful sobs swayed her frame.

«Okay, we're here», Phryne said, parking in the first available spot she had come across and jumping out of the vehicle to run to the other side and open the opposite door. She looked around to ward off any intention of the gendarmes to come close while the other woman was that upset. Rousseau and Gaillard had quickly escorted Alphonse in, followed by the two other gendarmes and barely spared a look at them. Lapin had been instructed to stay behind but watched them from afar.

Joséphine's face was stained with tears and she fell limply on the bench as she tried to catch her breath. Her shaking hands reached for her chest but the seemingly easy gesture was complicated by the extreme state of perturbation she was in.

Phryne took the sunglasses off Joséphine's face and put them on the dashboard. The French woman seemed to want to say something but her irregular breathing made it difficult. Miss Fisher then held her hand in hers and said calmly:

«Let's focus on breathing, shall we? One…two…three.» Phryne breathed deeply and slowly, still rubbing Joséphine's fingers. «Very well», she incited even if Joséphine continued being far from soothed. «Again. One…two…three.»

Phryne talked Joséphine through every step, yet as she resumed a regular pace of breathing, her crying grew more intense despite her visible efforts to compose herself.

Miss Fisher was focused on helping her return to a more peaceful state, but her reservations reared their head for a moment as she wondered if Miss D'Aramitz could be pretending to go through such an extreme episode. She was supposedly a talented actress and the crying wouldn't offer that much of a challenge to her but what about the quick heart-rate and that acute of breathing troubles? They seemed too genuine and worrying for being just a ruse.

«Do you feel better now?», Phryne asked.

Joséphine nodded, seemingly unable to do something else.

Miss Fisher reached for her purse, resting on the backseat, and took out her handkerchief. Joséphine took it with trembling hands and dabbed at her reddened eyes and cheeks.

«Alphonse», she blabbered at last, «What if he did this?»

She started crying again, as if too overwhelmed by the possibility.

«Is that why he was arrested?», Phryne asked, with a hand on Joséphine's shoulder. «You weren't with him that night, were you?»

« When M. Duval appeared by the water, Rousseau was already putting him in the motorcar. 'For suspicion of connection with the murder' was all he said. And…not always. I thought he was painting when I didn't see him in our room. »

Phryne paused for a bit.

«Are you settled enough to go inside?»

«Yes», Joséphine said, taking a deep breath and sliding off the seat.

«Alright then».

xxx

They had been ordered to wait. And so they had been doing for at least three quarters of an hour.

«I would like to talk to the Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard, please. I have some information that may be of interest», Phryne said to the gendarme manning the front desk, the same who had been on duty when she had put William's autopsy report back.

«I am sorry but it won't be possible, Madame. He is unavailable at the moment as you were told», the man replied politely in what Phryne would describe as a 'customer voice'. The look in his eyes lead her to believe that he had recognised her and she pondered on whether he had discovered the underlining motive of the confusion she had set off and that, alongside particular directions by Rousseau, enforced that posture towards her.

« I value his time and work and I wouldn't be troubling him if it wasn't really important. Crucial, even. Could I pass him a note, at least?»

Phryne kept insisting on meeting Gaillard instead of Rousseau not only to avoid being corded off right from the start but also to capitalise on any discontentment being always in the background might brew in the younger gendarme. While he had seemed obliging as he followed the Capitaine around, he had been in charge in a very organic way the night of the murder to be comfortable with being treated like the lowest-ranked officer despite his respect for military ranks and chain of command .

«You can write it, but I am not sure I will be able to deliver it immediately», the gendarme said, still in that too polite tone of voice.

«I shall take my chance», she said, reaching for the notebook and pencil in her handbag.

Phryne scribbled a succinct message, asked for an envelope and, as she handed it to the gendarme, she said:

«I will still wait in those chairs, if you don't mind?», making her way towards the area where Joséphine was already at. The other houseguests had stayed behind, stunned by the events as if they had been ripped off their beds in the middle of the night amidst a powerful storm.

Miss D'Aramitz was apparently calmer and had ceased crying but Phryne recognised it as the studied demeanour she put up when upset but in public, making an even harder effort after her breakdown.

The door by the frosted glass wall that shielded the rest of the station from the reception opened and a familiar voice came out from the ajar entrance.

«Has the report from Nice arrived yet, Ferrand?»

Phryne got up to her feet in a flash, before the gendarme at the counter had the chance to reply.

«Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard!», she called.

He came out from behind the door and nodded a greeting.

«Mlle Fisher.»

He seemed gaunter than the last time she had seen him, his thin features even sharper, probably out of the poorly slept nights and the poorly eaten meals that accompanied a complicated investigation.

«Bonjour. I've just left you a message. I was wondering why it is taking so long to talk to Mlle D'Aramitz».

«We still do not have all the elements we need to conduct that interview as we think it's best. But we will try to get to it as soon as we can.»

«M. Pernot's interrogation isn't over yet, you mean», Phryne said, not taking the time to coat her words with twisting polite constructions or the intention of downplaying her role because she wasn't officially part of the police and didn't want to offend him or hurt his feelings.

«I wouldn't disrespect you by lying about it», he replied.

«Thank you. But the timing of Mlle D'Aramitz conversation isn't the only reason why I wanted to talk to you. I have found something important for the case.»

«Go ahead», Gaillard said with a certain impatience below his words. His boss was waiting for him and he wasn't the kind of man who did so unless it was fully worth it. He trusted Mlle Fisher's abilities and skillset, but he couldn't go back to Capitaine Rousseau with some sort of circumstantial lead that would add nothing to that mess he couldn't wait to see over and yet sometimes seemed farther away from it instead of closer.

«I'd rather not reveal it here. Is there some other place where we could talk more privately?»

Gaillard swallowed dryly, but made use of his military bearing in order to conceal the rest of his frustration better.

«Follow me please.»

Phryne looked back at Joséphine before going through the door. The other woman nodded but didn't move beyond that slight gesture.

They hadn't talked much, but having Phryne there had been quite comforting and now that she was gone, Joséphine felt her heart pound with anxiety again. _Notre Père, qui es aux Cieux, Que ton nom soit sanctifié…_ It had been long since she had said those words, she wasn't even sure she believed in them, but, in that moment, they kept coming back to her unwaveringly and she didn't push them away.

Gaillard led Phryne through a room with desks. There was a particular sense of competency and that things were being done by the five gendarmes of different ranks working at the desks that not even the empty chairs at the others could curtail. From there, they walked to a hall at the end of it with more doors. The gendarme opened the first one and motioned Phryne in.

It was a small study with two desks opposite each other. He took one of the chairs by the wall and set it in front of the desk with a plaque engraved with his rank and «A. Gaillard».

«Thank you», Phryne said, taking that chair. «What does the 'A' stand for, if you don't mind me asking?»

«Aristide», Gaillard replied seemingly uncomfortable with that unexpected question.

 _The best kind,_ Phryne recalled. It bode well.

«So, what did you want to show me?», Gaillard said, joining his fingertips in a pyramidal shape.

Phryne put the box on the table top and opened it.

«Do you have any gloves?», she asked before handing him the wrapped handkerchief.

«Certainly», he replied, taking them from the top drawer of his desk and put them on.

«This came ashore to the right of the rocks used as the lounge area», she said, giving it to him. «It was half immersed, half out». Phryne left out any clear reference to her role in the discovery. It wasn't a secret and Gaillard wasn't stupid, but there was no need to antagonise him even if she believed that he wouldn't react as badly as Rousseau was bound to do.

«Blood», Gaillard said in a tone that managed to convey a question and certainty at the same time, as he turned the object in his hands. It was still damp and a kind of humidity transpired to underneath his gloves.

«That's also what I think», Phryne said, crossing her legs. As she observed him analysing what she had brought, Miss Fisher noticed the picture of a young woman on his desk with a round face, an Ina Claire bob and lovely eyes; probably his wife. She knew policemen had a life beyond the station (although Jack hadn't seemed to for a while), but it was always sort of jarring to come across its evidence like that for some reason though.

Gaillard repeated the gestures Phryne had done until he was left with the bloodied letter opener. He seemed to stop breathing as he took in what he was seeing and all the clues attached to that discovery.

«And I dare say that», Phryne said, pointing to the mark on the junction of the blade with the handle, «seems like a fingerprint. Maybe of one of the killers?»

The gendarme lifted the murder weapon closer to his eyes and while he hadn't said a word since he hand noticed the blood traces, his brow appeared less furrowed and the corners of his mouth were slightly upwards. He proceeded to move his attention to the handkerchief and the initials embroidered in the corner.

«Is M. Van Asten at home?», he asked, looking at Phryne now.

«I think so, but I doubt he's the one responsible for this. He can't stand the sight of blood. Someone wrapped that letter opener in his handkerchief on purpose.»

Without realising it, Gaillard's shoulders slumped as he lowered his gaze to the piece of cloth spread on his desk-top.

«In the night of M. Montgomery's murder, I noticed how he kept hiding his face on Mme. Van Asten's hair and avoided looking in the body's direction. I thought it was out of shock as well as to comfort her, but, next morning, she commented on how badly he reacts to it.»

«Couldn't he be pretending just to have an alibi? It doesn't seem that farfetched», Gaillard said. The unknown fingerprint might provide definitive proof about the person who had stabbed William Montgomery on the long run but the framing setback would not be received gladly by Rousseau. Gaillard clenched his fists. He wanted to solve that case as quickly as possible both to give peace to those involved but also due to the hope that it might provide the last step needed to consolidate the promotion he had been yearning for for long (and thought was duly deserved). Rousseau was a competent detective but seemed to see him as only a level above an errand boy for most of the time and he hoped that presenting something significant might change that.

«I don't think so. He was really pale and upset even considering the circumstances.»

«Well, thank you for your help, Mlle Fisher», he said, getting to his feet. There was no time to dwell on disappointments. Rousseau was still talking to Alphonse Pernot, Joséphine D'Aramitz had yet to be interviewed, they were still waiting for the report on possible fingerprints on the bottle of strychnine, and he had to send the letter opener as soon as possible to Nice for analysis. Maybe it could be compared with the one found on the whiskey glass. «I must deal with this now and the Capitaine is waiting for me.»

Phryne got up but didn't seem that keen on leaving so soon.

«One eye for an eye, Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard. I brought you this, you could be kind enough to share a bit of what you have to warrant M. Pernot's arrest. »

«Don't worry. His lawyer is with him», he paused for a bit.

«It's good to know», she replied, looking squarely at him.

«You know I can't do that, Mlle Fisher… but let's say that the leads we have at the moment are shedding light on the right direction.»

«I shan't keep you any long than», Phryne said, stretching out her hand to shake his.

« We will receive Mlle D'Aramitz as soon as possible.»

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this chapter closes the week. I'm sorry I wasn't able to update at an earlier hour. I hope you enjoyed these new developments (well, not that new, more like 'deepened', perhaps) and feel intrigued enough to want to check out what's coming up next.
> 
> Background notes: Place Guynemer does exist in Antibes.
> 
> «Notre Père, qui es aux Cieux, Que ton nom soit sanctifié…» are the first three lines of the Our Father prayer in French.
> 
> If everything goes according to the plan, a new chapter is to be posted on Tuesday. Thank you for reading and for your feedback.


	28. Chapter 28

After having her fingertips dabbed in ink and registered on paper and questioned about the bromide and her whereabouts the night of William's murder, Joséphine was cleared to go home by Rousseau. During that interview, she had managed to stay rather calm, but being told that Alphonse would have to stay was met with charged silence and teary-eyes.

Phryne draped a protective arm over her shoulders and lead her outside, towards the car. There was nothing else they could do there now and Gaillard had promised to telephone if something had changed.

She asked her if Joséphine wanted to have some ice-cream at one of the cafés by the sea, but she chose to go home instead if it were possible. Phryne complied and they sat in the motorcar, Mlle D'Aramitz doing as supposed, her head laying against the glass window, soft like an abandoned rag-doll.

Phryne drove in silence. It was still early for the sun to set, but the diminishing light was already felt and some of the narrower streets of Antibes seemed much darker than what it actually was.

Everybody was sitting in the drawing room when they arrived and they turned in their direction as soon as they walked through the door.

Joséphine excused herself and went upstairs. Nola took a step forward as if she was about to follow her but ended up staying in the same place.

«So? Is there something new?», Elliott asked, voicing the question boiling in every mind.

«Not much that I know of». Phryne thought best not to reveal what she had gathered so far when so many conclusions were still up in the air. Being cautious was of the utmost importance now. «Alphonse will have to stay at the gendarmerie though», she relayed.

Una covered her mouth. It was difficult to ascertain if she was shocked by the possibility of Alphonse being her husband's murderer or that he would be kept overnight. In the night of William's death, they had all been together for most of the evening, but she had to come upstairs to open the mail and write the answers she had been postponing for long and she hadn't come out until Mathilde had called her. Nola was still standing, taller than everyone since they were seated, probably thinking about Joséphine and the heartbroken look on her face; she trusted the gendarmes – if Alphonse was arrested, something must have prompted it. Elliott rested his head on his hand as if he was getting particularly bored, his wrist elegantly springing out of his French cuff. Phryne had always thought he had beautiful wrists and had liked to watch him write, drive, and smoke because of them. She blinked the thought away and focused on Philip. Mr Van Asten pursed his lips and closed his eyes. Caroline searched for his hand and looked at Phryne puzzlingly.

«And that's it»,, Miss Fisher said, «I am sure we will know something else soon though.»

A collective breath seemed to have left the people in the room, but they didn't move.

«I'll ask M. Duval for some tea. I think we could use it», Phryne said, starting to the kitchen. After the tea arrangements were set, she went upstairs to check on Joséphine.

She found her curled in silence in the large beech bed. The room was decorated in a similar way to the other's Phryne knew, the main difference being the colour scheme, distinct shades of green in this case.

«Joséphine», Phryne called upon not receiving any answer when she had knocked on the door.

Alphonse's daytime clothes were laid on the chaise longue at the end of the bed, with Joséphine's sunglasses and hat thrown on top.

Phryne walked towards her and put a hand on her forearm.

It was as if this show of sympathy had unlocked what Joséphine had put away since the afternoon.

«It's my fault», she said, erupting in shattering cries.

Those words surprised Phryne despite the impression she had that there was something else lurking other than worry and care under Joséphine's reaction to her boyfriend's arrest.

«What do you mean?», Phryne asked patiently, removing any trace of pressure that might coat her words. She was fully committed to finding that answer yet she couldn't risk scaring Joséphine away.

«Do you believe in God, Miss Fisher?», Joséphine asked after having turned to her.

«I can't say I do», she replied, astonished by this twist in the conversation.

«I don't think I do either but I can't stop hearing Soeur Marguerite's words in my head about paying attention to our sins, how God is watching and how we are supposed to live righteous lives because, after all, Jesus gave his life for us. I went to a Catholic school, you see, and while my faith waned over the years, I guess a part of me still clings to it, I guess, because I give to charity and set a scholarship so poor girls could get an education, and sent some money for the upkeep of the convent in order to atone for all the things I do that go against these teachings. But I wasn't strong enough this time. I tried but I wasn't and someone died because I was selfish and thought only of my own pleasure.»

Her eyes welled up. She rested her hand over her nose and closed them. Tears dripped quickly down her temples.

Phryne remained silent, letting those words fall upon the room as Joséphine chose.

«Things are more complicated than that», she said eventually, guessing that she had meant her liaison with Nola and not wanting to dismiss Mlle D'Aramitz's feelings but also avoiding to address her reasoning directly. Phryne believed in enjoying life as much as she could while observing some guidelines that preserved other's chance of doing the same, but religion had never posed this kind of question for her, not even when the its connection with the Church of England was particularly felt in Roedean.

«I mean, Alphonse is his own person, I know I can't take responsibility for his actions, but if I had stayed in this room that night he wouldn't have killed William. I could have stopped him. But alone? When he was alone his frustration with William and his jabs at how long he was taking with the mural festered on him.»

«Did you know about that?», Phryne asked. She couldn't deny she was surprised. More often than not they seemed to be in the aftermath of a particularly vicious argument, aloof towards each other. It was difficult to imagine them exchanging their worries like that.

«Our romance may have already seen better days but we're still friends», Joséphine said, calmer now, as if she had read Phryne's mind. «We all have had that kind of grudge against a boss or a teacher and been hurt, perhaps involuntarily by friends, but I never thought he would act on it.»

She sighed, like she had been suddenly punched by that haunting realisation.

«You knew the lighter was his», concluded Phryne.

Joséphine raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips in acknowledgement.

«Why didn't you say anything when the gendarmes came?». The number of times that questions had already been asked would have been comic in another circumstances. «It could be a first step towards amendments.», said Phryne.

«I honestly don't know», Joséphine said with a shrug. «I'm not even sure if it was due to shock or trying to cover up for him. I don't know what's worse.»

«You seem quite certain of his guilt now», Phryne said.

«He would never leave that lighter behind and be quiet about it if not for something grave. It was given to him by his uncle when he was 15. His father didn't allow him to smoke but he wanted to do it anyway and his uncle had 'Eddie' engraved in it instead of Alphonse as a decoy. I don't know how effective it would have been considering that Édouard is one of his names, but he cherishes that lighter deeply. He seems controlled and out together but he's very insecure. I could see everything getting to his head.»

Joséphine started crying heavily again and Phryne touched her forearm again. She had little official information so far and wouldn't rely solely on that account but what she did know supported it. Miss Fisher trusted evidence and it was true that they lied less often that people, but she couldn't be oblivious to the persons involved either. They were, after all, those who killed and those who died.

Phryne rose from the bed and went to get Joséphine's handbag, expecting to find a handkerchief she could give her.

She handed it to her and the other woman took it gladly.

«I better let you rest», Phryne said, apparently readying herself to leave.

«Thank you for everything.»

«You're welcome I'll be in my room, if you need something.»

Joséphine nodded but didn't say a word further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The case seems to be close to completion, but there are still some things to resolve.
> 
> There's a new chapter lined up for tomorrow, if everything goes according to the plan.


	29. Chapter 29

An envelope called her attention when Phryne approached her desk. Since she hadn't been present at the breakfast table when the post had been delivered, M. Duval had dropped by her room and left it there. The word 'Telegramme' beckoned her in large letters. Apprehension tightened her chest, the fear that something bad might have fallen over family or a friend made her muscles tense. She swiftly opened the envelope with her bare fingers and began to read.

THEN CAME A MOMENT OF RENAISSANCE STOP I LOOKED UP STOP YOU AGAIN ARE THERE STOP A FLEETING VISION STOP THE QUINTESSENCE OF ALL THAT IS BEAUTIFUL AND RARE STOP PUSHKIN STOP I MISS YOU TOO

Her features softened as her eyes glided over the lines. Phryne smiled and drew her hand towards her cheek. She felt herself blush again. It was as if the correspondence they tried to establish had turned her into a young girl enraptured by the discovery of first love. Besides, there was something quite intimate about that message despite the distinctive telegram marks, being a quote, and having been seen by many other people on its journey from the other side of the world to Chateau Ondine.

She tried to picture Jack choosing what poem to send as a reply, deciding on that Pushkin poem instead over Shakespeare or even Rilke, perhaps to mark the shift in their relationship. In theory, this sort of thing would have scared her off but Phryne found that she quite liked it actually, as if it were a garment one tried not expecting much but which turned out to be way more becoming and comfortable than anticipated.

She could imagine him, his head bent over a book, making sure he got every word correctly, even if it were a poem he knew by heart, as it would probably be. She didn't remember seeing a Pushkin volume on the shelves of his office, or any other volume from where it might come. Shakespeare, Rilke, police manuals, mugshot albums, and file reports, but no Pushkin. Maybe at home, that mystery place where he spent some of the short free hours out of the station, her parlour or Strano's. That curiosity poked her from now and then persisted once again. Where was it and how was it? She pictured it having many books, set in a shelf by a window, perhaps near a comfortable armchair where he could sit for hours. And a desk, yes, definitely a desk to catch up on the work he brought home some nights. A tiny kitchen, maybe, not needing more. Jack was a willing eater but had never mentioned anything that lead her to believe he was much of a cook. She envisioned his room to be as neatly arranged as his personality and military background had ingrained in him. She didn't mind disarraying it for a while, she thought, followed by a short laugh.

Phryne ran her fingers over the letters. It was the closest she could have to touching Jack in that moment. How much she wished she could actually brush her fingertips on his skin. She retrieved the other messages he had sent her from the second drawer of the desk, took some water from the carafe on the night-stand and sat on the bed.

She started to read the telegrams, but she was tired, not only physically but also beginning to feel emotionally drained as well. With the poem tightly held in her left hand, Phryne ended up dozing off and slept soundly until Mathilde called her for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this small chapter, which brought Jack's reply at last. I also hope you don't completely hate the fact that I forwent Shakespeare or Rilke and went with Pushkin but I had thought Jack would send some poetry to Phryne and as I searched, I found this and thought it was beautiful.
> 
> Alexander Pushkin was a Russian poet, playwright, and novelist of the Romantic era, deemed by many as the greatest Russian poet and the founder of modern Russian literature.
> 
> The excerpt above is from the poem 'A Magic Moment I Remember'. You can hear it in Russian in the video up on you tube (written like this so this doesn't get blocked or something) made by the University of Rochester where it is read by Tatyana Bakhmetyeva. In the caption, you can find the full translation to English.
> 
> Thank you for reading this chapter. There's a new one scheduled for tomorrow.


	30. Chapter 30

Alphonse's absence at the breakfast table was more felt that what could be expected, made heavier by his possible involvement in the other overwhelming absence at that same table.

People ate in silence, not attempting to establish small talk, their eyes steadily focused on their plates. The night before had already been bogged down by the same mood and everyone had retired early but the hours that had passed appeared to have deepened it, as if some had expected the dawn would bring answers and now that it hadn't happened even the small gesture could trigger hailstorm.

Phryne was the first to notice M. Duval coming out of the house with a furrowed brow and a new solemnity burdening his steps. He walked towards her and relayed in a low tone:

«Capitaine Rousseau is in the hallway and wants to talk to you at once».

She brushed the napkin over her mouth, excused herself, and got up. The people seated at the table raised their gaze for the first time. Hands tightened around cutlery and breath was momentarily suspended.

Phryne smiled to acknowledge them and followed the butler to meet the gendarmes.

«Mademoiselle Fisher», Rousseau said, nodding a greeting.

«Capitaine Rousseau and Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard, good morning. How can I help you?», she said, wondering what might have lead him to summon her. It was quite unexpected.

«We are here to invite everyone to Antibes without exception. Where can we find them?»

«I presume you have some new leads», Phryne said, «perhaps connected to what I delivered last afternoon?»

«As you may imagine and have been told already, I will not discuss what is behind my decisions regarding this case», said Rousseau, inflexible as ever. «Where are your fellow house-guests?»

«Why everyone?», Phryne insisted, «Isn't it a bit drastic? I supposed you would be narrowing down your possible suspects instead of enlarging that range. Not that I'm judging your procedure, obviously.», said Phryne, willing to gauge some reaction from the Capitaine.

«I came here as a courtesy. I thought people would be eager to help and give M. Montgomery some peace at last but I also have a judge ready to write down a warrant if it comes to it, Mlle Fisher.»

Rousseau was good at diverting attention, but Phryne was equally good at reading between the lines and didn't fail to notice that he hadn't addressed her point directly. She wanted to believe he knew her well enough to be aware that she would push as much as she could without bringing up irreversible consequences and that mentioning a judge was a step forward that he had to be able to deliver if it came to it.

«They're outside, having breakfast», Phryne relented at last.

«Gaillard, get Lapin and bring them here. The staff as well. If someone wants to get something from upstairs, you will go with them.»

«Oui, mon Capitaine», Gaillard said, exiting the house to fulfill the orders he had been given.

«How many cars are here?», Rousseau asked Phryne when they were all gathered in the hall.

«Two, I think, the Montgomerys' and M. Murrow's.»

«Very well. M. and Mme Van Asten and Mme Montogomery will come in mine. You, M. and Mlle Murrow as well as Mlle D'Aramitz and Maréchal des Logis-Chef Gaillard will be transported in M. Murrow's motorcar and Lapin will take M. Duval, Mlle Brunet, and Mme Leblanc in the Montgomery's.»

The people got into the vehicles as assigned and the convoy made its way to Antibes, driving fast by the reporters that had begun to gather by the gate of the property over the last two days.

Phryne couldn't know for sure the atmosphere inside the other motorcars, but she would bet the cloche hat on her head that it was equally silent, tense, and swollen with suspicion and anticipation.

They might have been 'invited' to the Gendarmerie station but, even if Elliott was available to drive his own vehicle, Gaillard was the one at the wheel. He was a fastidious driver, which exasperated Phryne and reminded her of Jack. He might not be appreciative of her driving style, but even he would object to the slow way the gendarme was conducting them through the town.

Once inside the building, they were directed to one of the meeting rooms in its core, which most people disliked. In spite of the effort made by the gendarmes to appear busy, they couldn't avoid staring. It wasn't every day that such a big group of people made their way through those doors, and while they had dealt with their fair share of inebriated celebrities, none had ever been called to the station under the shadow of a possible murder charge.

M. Gendron was already there when they arrived, holding his cap in an absentminded fashion. He didn't know what else the law might want to do with him, but the quickest they got it done the better. He had some acres of land to prepare and he had promised he would help his brother-in-law untangling some fishing nets.

«Thank you for coming. You will wait here as we call you one by one. I believe that it will not take long and, if possible, we will dismiss you immediately. You may call your lawyers if you wish but this is just an informal diligence to take your fingerprints to exclude your touches on daily household objects and ask a couple of questions if we see fit», Rousseau said once people were seated.

Una appeared intrigued and restless but resigned. If that humiliation was what was necessary to find out who had murdered her husband, she would endure it without a single complaint.

Joséphine had thought that she couldn't feel more mortified after the search of her room, but that had been before she had had been blinded by the flashes of the photographers stationed by the station. Her boyfriend, more than that, one of her most dear friends, might be a killer and, for a moment, her career might as well be ruined. These details could feed some gossip but that strange fascination people felt towards true crime would hardly translate into work. As if she hadn't reasons enough to hate herself, she might have turned into a footnote in the story of cinema even before she had lived up to her full potential. But then, while she tried to shed away the feeling that it wasn't her fault, most of the time she kept wrestling with the impression that she was fully deserving of that punishment.

Caroline was stunned. Finding herself in such a situation wasn't the kind of adventures she had wished for her life and she kept either focused on Rousseau when he talked or looking around the room, as if waiting for some intervention that would make things go back to normal. While it didn't happen, she appeared to derive some comfort from her husband's steady presence. Philip kept holding her hand devotedly as he paid attention to the Capitaine. For such a tall man, he could reduce the space he occupied quite successfully by sitting quietly and replacing the initial vulnerability shown in the wake of William's death by placidity and helpfulness, spending his time in the study or by his wife's side.

Nola seemed rather apathetic still, going where she was told and speaking so little Phryne believed she hadn't heard her voice that day. She had stolen a glance towards Joséphine from now and then but to little avail. Besides, seeing Una growing that anxious disturbed her (her friend had suffered enough already, hadn't she?) and she never let go of that feeling that she had to carry Elliott forward and put her hand on his shoulder often.

Elliott himself still had trouble sleeping and looked haggard and spirit-less. At least, he hadn't been drinking much but it seemed to only remind him that one of his best friends was dead and someone on that room was responsible for it. He covered his sister's hands with his every time she touched him, but he didn't know what else to add. That role reversal was so rare, he incessantly tried to come up with something that might help her but he ended up mimicking what she usually did for him, hoping it would be of any comfort. One thing was to mould characters like clay and make them whole by writing them whole, but, while it could be a difficult task in itself, it was easily accomplished when compared to real life.

Settled to the side of the room, Phryne had taken upon herself to watch these gestures once again, remaining in a privileged position from where she could monitor every clenched jaw and tight fist and teary eye as well as the clear ones.

Besides, this time she also had the chance to observe the staff. After all, they were at Chateau Ondine for the most of the day as well and while everything Phryne knew lead her to believe William had been a good employer, it wouldn't be the first time that impression would turn out to be just a veneer.

M. Duval, Mathilde, and Mme Leblanc were clearly uneasy. The butler tried to maintain his posture but he tapped his fingers on the brim of his hat, placed on the table top ahead of him, and his innate warmness seemed to have dimmed immensely. Mathilde kept raising her hand towards the ribbon around the straw hat on her head, as if she wasn't used to wearing one, which wasn't exactly true because a pleated headband was part of her uniform, and the pinkish tint to her cheeks that gave her that healthy country glow had deepened and made her look so terribly ashamed she could hardly seem any guiltier. Mme Leblanc fidgeted at times with the clasp of her handbag or with the small crucifix at her neck.

Their presence at the station entailed particular stakes. As it happens in most villages and small towns, everyone knows – or has at least heard of – everyone and not only had they lived in that area for all their lives but people knew where they worked and having a murdered boss singled them out from the many locals who staffed the villas and hotels around Juan Les Pins, Antibes, Cannes, and Nice. A good reputation and impeachable honesty were valued by them as individuals as well as by their families, friends, and acquaintances, and even the faintest hint of involvement in William's death could trigger consequences and prevailing rumours that would make it hard for them to get a new job, Mathilde to become a teacher or just to conduct the basics of live without being bothered.

But there was another realisation that added to their discomfort: Alain Duval, Mathilde Brunet, and Rose Leblanc wanted to trust justice would be served fairly, but they were also aware that money and status could protect the house-guests in some way it couldn't protect them.

It seemed that all air had been sucked out of the room when Gaillard came inside it to call Una. Being there was odd enough, but not knowing what would unravel next hung even more heavily over them. Rousseau might have mentioned why they had been 'invited' to Antibes, but everyone had picked up on the fact that there was some strong underlining motive beyond 'fingerprinting'.

The people summoned didn't come back to the same room and that circumstance deepened the lingering sense of foreboding instead of easing the nervousness rushing through the occupants. For all they knew, the others might have been sent home or arrested.

Phryne didn't exactly approve of these methods, but she recognised that the gendarmes were verging on that point of the investigation close to both despair and disappointment and they wanted to get it done before they gave in to those and became sloppy.

«Mademoiselle Fisher», Gaillard said, «could you follow me please? I am sorry it took so long». She was the last person left in the room by then.

«There's no problem. Did you find something at last?»

Gaillard smiled at her and opened the next door.

«That way, please»

Phryne smiled back; she hadn't been able to figure much from his reaction but there was a certain amusement to be had in that odd dance they had been partaking on.

«Mlle Fisher», Rousseau said, getting up from his chair, as did the other two uniformed men in the room she didn't know. «Sit down, please».

«Would you give me a good reason to do so, Capitaine Rousseau?»

Behind him, the other men appeared startled.

«Taking your fingerprints seems good enough of a reason for me», Rousseau replied, motioning with his hand towards an empty chair.

«I guess we could start with that», Phryne said, sitting down with the flair of a film-star, the legs of her trousers flapping as she crossed her legs.

On the table, there were several stacks of paper and files, an inking pad, a glass bowl with water, a towel, and two open cases in front of the gendarmes.

«These are Lieutenant Bourgaux and Sous-Lieutenant Dumond. He will take care of this. It would be a shame to ask them to come from Nice and not letting them do their job», Rousseau said with a smug smile.

«Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sous-lieutenant Dumond», Phryne said when the gendarme approached her.

«Likewise, Madame», he said, with a little bow of his head. He was younger than Rousseau and his own colleague, but had that impressive military bearing all the gendarmes she knew seemed to share. «Allow me, please», he continued, rubbing Phryne's fingers on the bar of soap to get some foam, then dipping them in the cold water and wiping them thoroughly but gently with the towel. «To make sure that we only register what's actually in your skin», he said, as if excusing himself. When he seemed satisfied with the state of cleanliness, he asked her to place her forearms flat against the table so they would be parallel with the floor.

Phryne did as she was asked. It didn't entail that much trouble and maybe she could use her goodwill as leverage against Rousseau.

Dumond then held her right hand again with his and told her to relax it and look ahead. She didn't need to worry; he would do the needed motions for her. The gendarme left her index finger straightened and folded the others to keep them out of the way. Still holding her a little above the wrist, he guided her finger with his left hand and rolled it on the pad from one limit of the nail to the other and from the first joint to the tip of the finger. He then proceeded to draw away the pad, put the filled out form his colleague handed him under Phryne's hand, and rolled her finger again, this time on the paper.

«Thank you, Mlle Fisher», he said, when he finished fastidiously processing all of Phryne's fingers.

«You can wash your hands now, if you want», Rousseau said, sliding the bowl and the soap-dish towards her. « Sous-Lieutenant Dumond will compare your finger prints with the ones found at the crime scene.

«It's both an honour and a pleasure», Phryne said with her biggest smile yet. Rousseau couldn't be serious but she was willing to embark on his little game.

Dumond put a jeweller's loupe in front of his right eye, securing it with the muscles around it as if it were a monocle and compared the prints on the cards with the ones that had been gathered on the letter opener, the lighter, and the whiskey glass.

«What do you know of your fellow housemates' finances?», Rousseau asked as Dumond continued his analysis, relishing in that pantomime.

«Not much. I would say 'about as little as you do', but I believe that stack of files renders that assumption quite dated», Phryne replied, eyeing the folders next to him.

Meanwhile, Bourgaux had taken over Dumond and after brief glances and low words exchanged between them, the Lieutenant touched Rousseau's elbow, apparently finished with the analysis.

«Congratulations, Mlle Fisher. You didn't kill M. Montgomery», he said with a smile so self-satisfied one could almost touch the smugness on his face with her fingers. Not that she wanted to, obviously.

«Thank you, Capitaine Rousseau», Phryne said, with an equally affected tone, «Perhaps now you could tell me something neither of us knew a day ago.»

«Mlle Fisher, I might miss you when this is over if you weren't so aggravating.»

Phryne couldn't avoid laughing. A genuine crystal laugh filled the air and elicited a smile upon Rousseau's face and puzzlement on Dumond and Bourgaux's, as they packed their cases and left.

«Humiliation, jealously, and money were the downfall of William Montgomery. Do you recall those familiar remarks frequently made when someone dies about how everybody liked them? Well, it turns out two people weren't that fond of him» he said, raising two fingers as he talked, his tone more appropriate to discussing a murder investigation now.

«It had already crossed my mind. Stabbing and poisoning, It either meant that there was a very thorough murderer really set on killing him or two people had randomly decided to murder him on the same day, which would be comical if a man hadn't lost his life», Phryne said.

«Are you familiar with Usufrutiers and Nu-Proprietaires? Someone is bequeathed the use of property, for instance, upon its owner's death while the person entitled to inherit is still alive. Like, for instance, leaving a house to a spouse to live in as long as they're alive even if the 'property' itself passes down to the children?», he explained, apparently not bothering to wait for Phryne's answer.

«We may call it by other names but we also have things akin to it. We call them Usufruct, Life Estate, and Remaindermen in Australia and England, Capitaine Rousseau», Phryne said. They were going so well.

«Businesses fail or the stock market trembles or people get desperate or simply their greed becomes too powerful to reign in…and people kill. I'm sure you've had your fair share of greedy murderers in Australia.»

«So it's done. You know who did it», Phryne said.

«I would say so. Everything else we find from now on is likely to be just an addition to the evidence we already have».

Phryne believed she could discern some cautious relief in his words but she didn't say anything. It still felt too early to call it a closed case but that reticence might be just that. A feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm sorry for not having updated yesterday, but it wasn't possible to do so. I hope you like this chapter enough to atone for that. 
> 
> This is much more case-heavy than the previous chapter, but the circle is closing tighter and tighter still and, finding who did it, it's one of the aims of this after all. 
> 
> Notes: The fingerprinting process steps were taken from research, the legal terms (both in French and English) do exist and I hope I used them as accurately as possible. 
> 
> And this is it for this week. If everything goes according to the plan, Tuesday will bring a new chapter. Thank you!


	31. Chapter 31

«Is Philip still in there?», Caroline had rushed to ask Phryne as soon as Miss Fisher had walked into the second meeting room to which people were being directed after their interviews, now vacant but both for them and Rousseau. The eagerness with which she had inquired about her husband's whereabouts had been replaced by growing incredulity as she heard the Capitaine inform her that Philip had been detained on suspicion of murder.

She sat completely straight, her shoulders back, and her head high as if she was posing for a portrait, her hands crossed over each other. If not for the vacant stare, she would have looked quite beautiful in fact, with her pale rose dress accented by white geometrical motifs and a hat in the same colours, and waves of soft hair framing her face, illuminated by the afternoon sun glowing on her.

Caroline was taking it as she had been taught a lady should take difficult news – without too much emotion or public fuss -, but she couldn't be more blindsided by such conclusions.

Both Phryne and Rousseau were silent as well, leaving her time and space to process the words she had just heard. Philip had killed William. Well, had tried to at least. It was hard to know what had gotten to him first; the poison corroding his systems or the stab wounds from which he would bleed to death.

Philip had killed William. Her Philip. He was handsome, the handsomest man she had ever seen, but his confidence and, even more so, the vulnerability she had discovered underneath had been what had captivated her first when they had been introduced at the annual New York Nursery and Children's Hospital Charity Ball held at the Waldorf-Astoria four years prior. Quiet, shy, little Caroline drawing all eyes to her as they danced. Her dance card with 'Van Asten' written on it five times. Her Philip. For all her romantic notions, Caroline had never given much credit to the idea that someone could actually swoon over someone but Philip had made her believe. She had been so ecstatic about meeting him sometimes she could hardly see and her head felt light like a balloon let up by a child. Her Philip. The man who had quietly courted her for months and wrote her beautiful love letters where he poured out the feelings he felt too ashamed to reveal out loud, even after they had gotten married at the same Waldorf-Astoria where their story had begun in a distinguished an elegant affair of which memories she would forever hold dear; even in his quiet and, some would say, snobbish manner, Philip had been as happy as she had ever seen him, unable to reject the smile that just bent his lips even when his face hurt from it. He had written to her again just the previous night and Caroline had found a note under her pillow where he complimented how she had been tending to Una and praising her graciousness, thanking her for taking care of him in these complicated times; he was truly a grateful man for having the chance to love her and be her husband. Her Philp. The man who was conservative and uptight, it was true, but who also had those kind brown eyes and always gifted her a fresh flower during breakfast before leaving for work. Her Philp. The man who had been by her side as she tried to grapple with the shock of William's death while his own heart was breaking so she could help his widow avoid falling into a pit of endless despair. Her Philip.

«It can't be», Caroline said at last in a whisper, her eyes still looking at nothing in particular. He had had his problems with his stepfather, but in the end, he was just trying to protect his mother from men with dubious intentions. Adeline Van Asten had had the money but also the poise and distinction to lure them if she wanted and while Caroline had never met her, she had heard some rumours of how Adeline bloomed under the adoration of the young men that flocked to her. Philip was twenty-three when his mother had married William and it had taken a toll on a young man who hadn't had a father for most of his life but they had overcome those challenges, hadn't they? Why would Philip insist on spending some months with him and his new wife for years if he hated him enough to kill him?

«Mme Van Asten, I understand it may be complicated to make peace with this, but we retrieved M. Van Asten's fingerprints from the glass found at the crime scene, which also still had poison residue», Rousseau said quietly. This wasn't the first time he encountered a relative seemingly unable to conciliate their own image and sense of that person with the fact that they might also shot someone, stab them, poison them, or knock them over with a piece of iron or throw them under a moving vehicle.

«Philip and William always had a drink after dinner», said Caroline as if she hadn't fully heard the circumstances that had made that particular night stand out from all the other times it had happened before.

«There was an attempt to clean the fingerprints from the glass and the ones we retrieved were only from M. Montgomery and your husband. Besides, M. Van Asten's were in a considerable small number and in strange angles, not to mention that the bottle was completely cleaned. Why would someone else wipe the bottle clean and try to clean the glass yet leaving it behind so its absence wouldn't draw much attention? As you said, your husband and M. Montgomery had whiskey together often, removing the glass would be too notorious. We analysed the whiskey in the bottle and it wasn't poisoned», Rousseau explained.

«Didn't you say someone tried to clean the fingerprints? Maybe that's why there are less traces of Philip's fingers on that glass», she said, her French failing when confronted with such specific words. Learnt with governesses and at school, it was expected to be deployed when entertaining illustrious guests, meeting high dignitaries or when travelling abroad, not to plead for one's husband's innocence as he faced murder charges.

«Caroline», Phryne said in English, holding her hand, «They were heard arguing over money and, I'm sorry to tell you, but Philip was having some issues in that regard and you know about the conditions under which the houses were left and about the trust fund left by Adeline that William and Philip shared. It had a bigger dent than expected when Philip tried to turn to it to compensate his losses», she continued in English.

Caroline turned to Phryne at last, her dark eyes searching for the answers to questions she didn't even know she had. She was vaguely aware that William was allowed to live at the houses that had been Adeline's even if Philip had inherited them due to some off-hand comments her husband had made about changing the colours of the apartment in Paris or how he'd change the disposition of the rooms in the New York penthouse but she had never heard of the trust fund. Why should she? It was Philip's and money was the husband's purview anyway even when he wasn't a banker, wasn't it? Even the monthly allowance she got from her family came through him first, despite being for her to manage as she saw fit. If the money issues were true, he had pretended well they weren't, including not tapping into it and reducing it. (Or he had always taken a cut for himself and she had never been aware of it and that's why she hadn't noticed anything. Entertaining the idea was enough to make her absolutely disgusted with herself).

She felt suddenly ashamed on top of all other heightened emotions running through her. Caroline wanted to be a modern and independent woman, but had never taken many actual steps towards that beyond some more adventurous fashion choices and having some duties in committees and boards which, while she enjoyed them, had been basically been chosen for her by her family and societal expectations. Philip wasn't going to jail because he hadn't killed William, but what if he was convicted anyway due to the seeking of a quick resolution or justice error. Was she to be stranded in France forever? She didn't have a passport. Her own information was written on Philip's, almost like she was a steamer trunk he had brought over from America. Not that she wanted to leave. She loved him and he was innocent, but what if she needed to get documents and evidence from New York? It was a possibility she had to acknowledge.

«I shall contact a lawyer then, I guess», Caroline said, trying to make her voice appear sound. She had no idea how she would reach Philip's. They had had him over for dinner at the Ritz when they were in Paris so she knew his name, but she only had a faint impression of the arrondissement where he worked and she wasn't even sure he would be suitable for such a case. It was as if she was being suddenly bombarded by all the practicalities of life she didn't know how to conduct and she had never thought of learning because she trusted Philip would take care of them himself or get in touch with those who could, and it felt like being the only person in the pool who had never learnt to swim.

«There's no need to trouble yourself. M. Van Asten has already given us his details. He will arrive in Cannes later today, Rousseau said.

The lawyer would come and help correct this nonsense, she was sure of it. Philp's French was excellent, but maybe something had gotten lost in translation and having a native mediating would be of great value.

«Can I see him?», she asked, her voice truly unwavering for the first time. Caroline wanted to make sure he hadn't been harmed and to let him know that she would stand by his side through this terrible misunderstanding, hold his hand, and soothe him. He wasn't easily scared but this must be taking a toll on him. Caroline wouldn't even dare to imagine being in his place because while she was certain he was more than able to fend for himself if needed, the thought of him either alone in a cold cell or thrown in a tank with other detainees was enough to make hot tears of rage burn in her eyes and ignite the will to say what was really in her mind to the gendarmes and that could hardly help them. Arresting Philip like this? What an insult, what amount of disrespect – she didn't mean to question their competence but they had failed, they had completely failed this time.

«For a short while», Rousseau replied, «Wait here, please» he said, leaving them behind in that sad, aseptic, bland meeting room.

«What do you think?», Caroline asked Phryne after a few seconds of silence.

«About what?», Phryne said, fully aware of what Caroline mean.

«Philip», she said, looking at Phryne with the ardour of last hope.

«I haven't had access to all the facts yet to make an informed assessment». Phryne knew she sounded like a policeman writing a report but she felt it would be too cruel to tell Caroline that, in light of what she did know, Philip was a very convincing suspect before she could have the chance to see him. He had the motive, the chance, a weak alibi – he had supposedly gone upstairs after talking to William for a while but Caroline couldn't remember it well due being asleep to try to mitigate the strong headache and his fingerprints were in the glass that had been laced with poison. Phryne had no doubt about Caroline's love for him and she thought that there was no need to tarnish it before she could see him one last time without that knowledge burdening her. The shock the eventual realization would bring onto Caroline would be tremendous and enough.

Rousseau returned before Caroline could voice a reaction, but Phryne had the impression she had seen a flash of hurt in the other woman's eyes. She was a bit saddened since she genuinely liked Caroline but she understood it and accepted it.

«Come with me, please», said the Capitaine.

«Caroline, could you tell Philip I would like to talk to him?», asked Phryne.

She nodded almost imperceptibly and got up from the chair, running her hands over her dress and taking a deep breath once she was standing up.

The gendarme conducted them outside through the parking lot to another wing of the building. He greeted the uniformed men at the counter and they opened the thick iron door which separated the hallway from the rest of the area.

Caroline shivered. It was difficult not to be affected by such stark reminder that once you were behind those doors, your life had deeply changed, not to mention having to face the physical remainders of where Philip was.

She straightened her back and Phryne touched her elbow reassuringly. She was aware Miss Fisher thought Philip was guilty, her non-committal answer had cemented that more than a full-on admission could have achieved, but she appreciated having her by her side.

«M. Van Asten is here. You have twenty minutes», Rousseau said, opening the door on the right and ushering Caroline in, closing it after him afterwards, when he was already next to Phryne.

Guarded by Gaillard, who was standing in a corner of the room, Philip was sitting at a table, his wrists joined together by handcuffs, but that was the only difference from how he looked when Miss Fisher had last seen him that morning, impeccably dressed and groomed as usual.

He smiled and raised to his feet when he saw Caroline but, following Gaillard's orders, they didn't touch each other and quickly sat down. Only then did Caroline briefly hold his hand, once again stopped by the regulations Gaillard was there to enforce.

Through the glass on the door, Phryne could hear them exchanging mutual reassurances that they were well and would sort this mishap out. Since Caroline had her back to them, it was hard to grasp her reaction beyond the words that reached Phryne, but she had a clear view of Philip's face. He seemed to be his contained self, his arrest tiring his eyes a little perhaps. But he wouldn't let himself falter, he assured Caroline. The gendarmes would realise their mistake and he would be out soon. M. de la Falaise was the most competent lawyer he could have.

Phryne noticed how he never asserted that he hadn't killed William. There had been mistakes and misunderstanding that could be easily picked apart but never a clear claim of innocence. Whether on purpose or due to the nervousness, Caroline never asked him directly if he were involved in the crime, but she didn't question him about the money issues they seemed to be facing.

Philip admitted to having invested in shares that had turned out to yield much worse results than expected and that he had found himself with some cash flow difficulties since the market was quite fickle as of late. He had asked William about the trust fund but that was it. Caroline said he could have talked to her, even turned to her father. The Besselinks were tremendously fond of him and would have gladly helped him. Philip said was ashamed, so deeply ashamed for his folly and lack of instinct he couldn't do that and lead them to think that they had trusted their daughter to such an unworthy man who didn't even seem able to do his job correctly, despite all the love and respect he had for her. His voice trembled and appeared to sound clouded by tears. He dabbed at his eyes with his fingers and Caroline seemed to do the same to hers. He wasn't unworthy of her, he could never be and her family would have fully understood if he had come to them. Johannes Besselink had been on the verge of losing all his money in the Great Depression of 1873, but his brother-in-law, less affected, came to his aid and together they had built a shipping empire once the economic climate was better.

«Mme Van Asten, I am sorry, but it's time for you to go», Gaillard informed, coming closer to the table.

Caroline seemed startled by his remark, how could 20 minutes have passed so fast?

«What about Miss Fisher? She would like to talk to you», she asked Philip.

«Let's not push out our luck. I will talk to her later», he replied.

His attempt to avoid her had been so blatant, Phryne nearly asked Rousseau for an extension so she could confront him, but it wasn't worth it. She would tap on his goodwill if something else came up.

«Go, and don't worry about me. Try to get some rest, dear. I will be alright.»

«I will be back soon with some clothes, toiletries, and other things you may need».

«Thank you», Philip smiled at her, «Marrying you was the best thing I have ever done.»

«Can I hold his hand?», Caroline asked Gaillard.

«For a brief moment.»

Caroline did so and Philip stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

When the door closed behind her, Caroline couldn't avoid the tears building inside her from anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it, even if Phryne's role is somewhat subdued here, despite having been the one who found the glass many chapters ago. Given that we've been with these characters for a while, I hope they carry sufficient heft for you to feel invested in them.
> 
> Historical details: There were indeed many Charity Balls held at the Waldorf-Astoria in the 1920s, including the benefit for the New York Nursery and Children's Hospital one in 1927, the year Caroline and Philip would have met.
> 
> I wasn't able to find information that would help me conclude if the Gendarmerie station would have a jail wing and if it had, where it would be located. Yet, it doesn't seem that wild of a guess, particularly for short detention periods or as an in-between from the first arrest and indictment to being transferred for other prisonal facilities after being heard by a judge.
> 
> There's a new chapter scheduled for tomorrow.


	32. Chapter 32

Unlike Philip, Alphonse had acquiesced to meet Phryne after Joséphine's visit. He didn't deny having killed William and saying it as often as possible seemed to have been a very particular type of punishment he had chosen for himself until justice doled him one out.

He was sitting across the table from Phryne, his eyes reddened by crying yet their blue seemed even paler due to the contrast with the grey of his rough new prison uniform and the wrinkled white shirt, and his own body seemed to be as unsteady as the mandarin collar of his shirt. Alphonse's shoulders slumped and he seemed to be willing himself up with almost all the energy he had left so he wasn't fully collapsed onto the wooden table top.

«Miss Fisher», he said, his voice coarse and low at the same time.

«Hello, M. Pernot. Thank you for meeting me», she said in French.

Alphonse scoffed, defeated. As if he had a very busy day and receiving her was a favour.

He seemed on the verge of breaking down again. Joséphine had been more interested in supporting him than on demanding answers, but he had blurted them out alongside a deep sense of regret and tears. She hadn't forgiven him but that was beside the point. He had done a ghastly thing and should pay for it, but it wasn't a reason to leave him friendless and alone when he most needed it. If her public life was as finished as she guessed sometimes and truly believed in others, at least she could have the peace of knowing that she had tried to help someone in even direst circumstances.

«You deserve some explanation, even if there's no justification for what I've done.»

Phryne wondered if that 'you' was directly aimed at her or if he had meant all those at the house, who had been caught in that whirlwind.

«What changed that night?», Miss Fisher asked, bearing in mind Joséphine's words about how William's remarks sometimes got too difficult for Alphonse to brush off.

«I have asked myself that question over and over and over again for the past two days, Miss Fisher, and I'm still not sure I know. Jealousy, I guess», he replied, wiping his eyes with his fingertips.

«Jealousy over…», Phryne was puzzled.

«Amadèu Noguès… We never got along and seeing William praise him so highly at the gallery that afternoon hit me hard, I think. I'm not proud of it, but I have always been envious of him, Miss Fisher.»

Phryne continued in silence and didn't move.

«With his bright new ideas and all that charisma and his bohemian family history. Everybody has been falling at his feet ever since he made it to the scene. I'm not saying he isn't talented nor that he doesn't work hard for that recognition but I have been struggling for years, knocking on doors and meeting people and applying to exhibitions and it amounts to so little».

Alphonse appeared frustrated but also wistful. He clutched his fists at first and then uncurled his fingers as if defeated, feeling the weight of how far he had gone and how it was impossible to come back.

«William always believed in you». His endorsement might not be as influential as Gertrude Stein's but it wasn't a trifle either.

«I know», Alphonse said with a sigh, covering his face with his hands, «I know… but I was hurt and offended when he joked about how long I was taking with the mural. I am not going to lie but he was always on my side nevertheless».

Tears rose to Alphonse's eyes.

«I should have addressed it with him, but I was afraid he might stop the patronage», he sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, looking at Phryne again, «that night… that night I showed the mural to William between cocktails and dinner. He liked it and was excited about the progress made since he had last seen it, but he said he hoped to see it finished by the end of the summer. I promised he would but his words bothered me for the whole night. I couldn't look at him without, without hearing them in my head», Alphonse continued, raising his hands at the level of his ears, as if he was hearing them again, followed this time by William's struggled cries for help and attempts to ask him to stop, his shallow breath, and the sound of the letter opener being shoved into his muscles.

That memory made him screw his face in disgust, regret, and fear. William could have probably minded his words, picked up on the effect they had on Alphonse, but, while Alphonse had always been good at hiding his feelings (you had to when children mocked you mercilessly over them and it was difficult to quit it after so many years mastering it), he had been the one who had crossed the line and done the unthinkable, caught in a daze of rage and hurt that had overrun the principles he had been taught by his family and his church, as well as his conscience.

Alphonse Pernot had never thought he would be able to kill and yet he had. Not in the midst of a row by accident or to save himself nor by the randomness innate to life. He had purposely taken a letter opener, made a careful and deliberate way through the woods, and stabbed a man in his back like the coward he was. And, as if it weren't enough, he had tried to blame another man for his own crime, unwittingly excluding him because back then he didn't know that Philip couldn't stand the sight of blood. He might have been blind by anger and offense, but he had been conscious enough to recall that Philip and William had fought over money and he had rummaged through Van Asten's drawer for a monogrammed handkerchief in which to wrap the weapon, the blade glistening like a sinister grin, before throwing into the sea just in case it spat it back, brought by water's caprice even if the Mediterranean was supposed to be much quieter than the Atlantic that whipped the beaches of Larmor where he had grown up.

He remembered playing with his siblings on that shore. They laughed until their throats were coarse and the lungs hurt from the cold, running with abandonment but also caution at the same time because getting home dirty and wet would earn them quite a telling-off from their mother. It was difficult enough to raise three children and run a home on a port worker and a laundress wages and she didn't need the extra expenses of new shoes or a ruined coat whether by water or sand. They would never go back to that beach together now – Pierre had died in the war and Marie had married a Canadian soldier and moved to his hometown.

Yet, in spite of those happy memories, how much he had wanted to leave Larmor's dullness, its coldness, its deadness behind. Divine inspiration had started it all, Alphonse might say, given how his first contact with art had been the reredos, tabernacles, stained windows, altars, retables, and sculptures on display at the Church of Notre Dame de Larmor. His favourites had been the centre retable where Our Lady of Larmor saved the ships from peril, surrounded by a cloud of light, the retable de la Pietà, with its starry sky despite the sad scene it depicted, and the statues of the apostles to the left of the entrance. He was always amazed by how someone had managed to turn stone into hair and beards and draped clothing and little fingers. Over time, he had visited much more opulent, imposing, and technically demanding churches and cathedrals but, for that seven-year-old boy, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. So beautiful it was almost overwhelming, he recognised now, through the veil of past times as he recalled that he had felt he could cry. That had been the day he had fallen in love with art and, even if he had never felt particularly rooted in that town beyond being the place where he, his family, and friends lived, the start of his disenchantment with Larmor. First because he wanted to travel and see more buildings like that church, but also different than it, to repeat that balmy feeling that had wrapped his chest when he did. Then he wanted to move away to learn how to paint. Not exactly religious imagery, his long train trips paid by the odd jobs he picked up in the village had opened his eyes, but to paint whatever he wanted and inspired him.

That dissatisfaction was hardly original, one could find many books telling such stories to start with, and how many people had he met in Paris who were running away from Haugenau or Mont-de-Marsan or Compiegne or Varlas or other places more or less distant like Lisbon, Moscow, Worthington in Minnesota, Buenos Aires or Oran, but he believed it had informed who he was or thought he was and going there once a year to visit family was enough. Now, he was completely devastated that he would never be able to return though. If someone had ever told him he would feel this forlorn, he wouldn't have believed them at all.

Alphonse also thought of his parents. His father checking the time so he wouldn't be late for work, leaving when the children were ready to go to bed. His mother's soft and prematurely white hair, braided and coiled at the back of her head, no longer the beautiful red inherited from the Celts that had once lived in that area many centuries ago. Their strict but genuine love for their children even if it seemed they were only there to scold them and teach them how difficult life is.

They had relented eventually and cheered him on, but at first they had been shocked and disappointed by his wish to leave the village he had been born to, perhaps haunted by the threat the war – that gaping, unstitch-able would that hadn't even been covered by the thinnest of scabs yet – had sent over the place their families had always called home, even if the Front had been near the opposite border of the country, and the fear of those who had fought of dying away from Brittany, in another part of France, or even in Belgium or further away. This was just Alphonse conjecturing, they had never actually voiced it. His parents preferred to try to appeal to him by remind him what a pity it would be; if he didn't want to work in the docks or in one of the sardine preserves factories he could get a job at the train station in Lorient. That last one, in particular, was a good job to have, with a decent pay, and Thérèse liked him, he knew she liked him and hadn't they danced together for so long during the last _Fête des Goélands_? Besides, his maternal grandmother's house had been empty since she had died. It was a lovely house and he could even see a bit of the ocean. How lucky! He couldn't find a better house in Larmor, Lorient or even in Paris, to be honest. It might need a bit of work, here and there, but Cousins Paul and Jean-Baptiste would help him with that for sure.

Except that was the problem. There were too many cousins, both true and by affinity and uncles and aunts and grand-uncles and great-aunts despite the people who had died in the war and those who had succumbed to influenza. He craved art and what it made him feel, but he also craved losing himself in the throngs of Paris while wanting his name to be known in all its cafés and studios and salons and museums and schools and then in all the cafés and studious and salons and museums and schools around the world, yet away from all those blue eyes like his.

Angélique and Henri gleefully replied to his vague letters and, honestly and despite his strong will to become as detached from Larmor as he could, he had been moved by their encouragement and tried to take solace in it.

Alphonse knew things wouldn't be easy. One couldn't simply waltz into Paris with a handful of paintings under their arm and become a renewed painter or, better yet, artist. He had been ready to fight. But knowing something will be difficult isn't the same as actually experiencing it, particularly when the little money he had been able to save was coming to end and the date to pay the rent of the small room he lived in in the Rue Cels was approaching with fast, heavy steps. He had met many interesting people in the cafes of Montparnasse and Montmartre and shown his paintings to them but nothing significant had come out of it; Like him, most of them had talent and an eye but little money and/or clout. With hunger and homelessness looming over him, he had had to relent and find a paying job. He would never confess to his parents that he had become a porter at the Gare d'Orsay. He could have perhaps gotten the same job at Montparnasse, much closer to his lodgings, but that's where the trains from Brittany arrived at and it would be too shameful coming across someone he knew. Working wasn't shameful, he had been raised with a strong work ethic, but doing so as something he had always rejected would be. At night, his feet, his back, his shoulders, arms, and hands hurt but he still managed to summon energy enough to paint the ideas he had been working on mentally during the day as he hauled luggage around. Most of the paintings weren't up to his satisfaction, but there was a couple of them he thought were quite good and those were the ones he took to La Rotonde, le Dôme, La Coupole or Select and which had earned him an invitation to an art show put together by a Russian gallerist a few doors down. Alphonse had seen Una and William Montgomery from afar, but they had never actually met until then and it was as if his life had gotten a second start. William's patronage allowed him to quit the porter job and paint for days and be included in more exhibitions but also to mingle with the artistic set that converged to their house. That was how he had met Joséphine and fallen in love for the second time in his life. She was undeniably beautiful but he had also been drawn by that magnetism that seemed innate to her and, overtime, become such close friends it had survived the downfall of their love affair and yet permitted them to continue embodying the fantasy of what had been before. He was mortified for having disappointed her, even if they had been fighting rather often before William's death.

There had been moments when he had let out a sigh of relief and thought he had become more confident, even daring to wear the Breton stripes of his fellow men with flair instead of shame, but there were also others were he could almost hear a voice whispering «this will be snatched away from you at any moment». The reminder helped keeping him grounded but it also made him question himself and feel he would never be enough. It turned out he probably wasn't; he had given in to pressure and ruined his life, hadn't he?

He had asked Joséphine to not tell his parents he was in prison yet, let them keep the illusion of a successful son for a little longer. He hoped Juan Les Pins was removed enough from Brittany so the news of William's death and his own involvement wouldn't make it to the newspaper his father read at the docks with his colleagues until he felt ready to write them a letter.

Alphonse swallowed his tears, wiped his eyes, and looked at Phryne again.

«I know it has no excuse possible but could you please tell Una that I can't even imagine what she is going through», his eyes were glistening again, «yet I am deeply deeply sorry for having murdered William and there isn't a single moment when I don't regret having done so and prematurely taking him away from his family and friends and from the life he loved so much. I will be forever thankful for all their help over the years. I can only hope she can forgive me some day.»

«I will let her know», Phryne said. She had been involved in many investigations to be easily swayed by tears alone, but she believed him in that moment. Alphonse would probably be guillotined for his crime and, while he deserved punishment, Phryne felt sad for him.

XXX

As per her request, Phryne had left Caroline sitting alone on one of the benches facing the sea on the grounds of the Gendarmerie but, even without coming very close, Miss Fisher could see Joséphine had joined her meanwhile and they were crying in each other's' arms.

Phryne pondered on how while one had believed her beloved friend had killed a man and the other was still firmly wrapped in the opinion that her husband could have never done such dreadful thing they were supportive of each other, based upon the fact that no one could understand how they were feeling as well as the other did. Miss Fisher didn't know if they were both aware of this difference, but she wanted to trust it wouldn't matter if they did.

Elliott was smoking some metres away, leaning against a pine trunk. He had received the news of the identity of the presumed murderers with surprise, Alphonse's involvement appearing more unexpected than Philip's due to the tension he had perceived under their cordial conversations, but surprise still. He wasn't usually prone to competing with other men or the will to rule above others, but it was strange to realise he was the only man left nevertheless, particularly after the tragic and confusing circumstances that had led to that.

He was taking a drag of his cigarette when Phryne's touch on his left elbow distracted him from these thoughts.

«Hello», she said, with a little smile.

«Oh, hello», he replied, smiling weakly back at her as well. «Una and Nola went to the morgue to claim William's body. He can finally have a proper funeral», he added, with a shattering sigh.

Phryne raised her hand and rubbed his shoulder assuringly.

«You could have gone with them if you wanted», she said. Miss Fisher had asked him to keep an eye on Caroline while she went to talk to Alphonse.

Elliott shook his head.

«Thank you, but I'd rather stay here anyway», he said, taking another drag. «We will bid farewell to each other in the funeral».

«You're still having trouble sleeping», Phryne said, her words a mix of conclusion but also question.

«A little. I think the only reason why I haven't slept worse is because I'm so damn tired. He wouldn't be mad at me for skipping seeing him on a morgue slab. He'd probably do the same». Elliott wasn't so sure William would have turned away if their roles were reversed but, as much as it pained him, he accepted that William was dead and nothing would bring him back, so he had to focus on his well-being and try his best not to feel like drinking his conscience away after providing it with yet another reminder of his dead friend. The funeral would be difficult enough and that he wouldn't skip.

«I am so sorry», Phryne said, unsure if those were the proper words to say, but lacking anything else to add, holding him by his back.

«Thank you», Elliott said, tenderly draping an arm over Phryne's shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if you had considered Alphonse as one of the possible killers, but whether you did or not, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It isn't Phryne-centric once again, but I hope this gave weight to why Alphonse acted. 
> 
> Historical notes: Larmor is located in Brittany, in North-western France. It became an independent «commune» (an administrative region without a direct translation into the UK system but close to civil townships in the US and Gemeinden in Germany) in 1925, when it took the name Larmor –Plage in order to avoid confusion with Larmon-Baden, about 60km away. Given that Alphonse would have known it as Larmor for most of his life (if not An Arvor, in Breton), I didn't write the distinction in this story.
> 
> The church dates back to the 16th century (but the bell tower was only built only a century later) and is located in the centre of the town, where other chapel had once stood in the 6th century.
> 
> The retables mentioned do exist as well as the apostles statues. You can find pictures on-line.
> 
> Given Larmor's size and Alphonse's story, I think that that church would be his first gateway to art.
> 
> There were Celtic tribes in this region once. They were pushed towards the edge of the country by Romans and other groups over history, like the Franks, who eventually named the place the Romans had called Galia and we know today as France.
> 
> The furthest northwestern part of France was the only place where the Gauls managed to survive, keeping their Celtic language and culture alive and Brittany is still the largest outstanding stronghold of Celtic heritage in continental Europe. (Despite the fact that Breton was also one of the languages to be repressed in the same wave of government measures mentioned in the notes about Provence and Provençale).
> 
> As strange as it may seem, I couldn't figure out if the Fête des Goélands festival still exists today, but I found references to it happening from 1921 to 1938, at least. Given how this festivals are usually imbued in the social character of a particular place, I wouldn't put past it for it to have started before than that date and continue past the 30s, with maybe a pause during WWII.
> 
> Sporting exibitions, tradicional games, balls, and other activities of the sort were part of the programme.
> 
> Goéland is the vernacular name for 'seagull' (mouette in French) and curiously there are similar terms in in Catalan and Occitane, making the difference between a 'regular seagull' and, to simplify, a 'large seagull'. Curiously, or not, the local footbal team is called «Union Sportive des Goelands de Larmor-Plage».
> 
> Rue Cels does exist. As a piece of trivia, let me tell you that Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre lived at Hotel Mistral, located there, on and off from 1937 to 1939.
> 
> La Rotonde, le Dôme, La Coupole or Select were some of the cafés of the area where many (more or less) influential artists and other elements of the artistic set went in Montparnasse.
> 
> The death penalty in France was enforced through the use of the guillotine, as late as in 1977, the year of the last execution. The death penalty was abolished in France in 1981.
> 
> There's a new chapter up for tomorrow. Thank you!


	33. Chapter 33

William had requested no wake, so the houseguests at Chateau Ondine had returned home after leaving him to the care of the undertaker's.

Phryne had driven Caroline to Cannes to meet M. de La Falaise upon his arrival and see him settled at the Hotel du Cap, and afterwards they had had sandwiches and tea for dinner, no one in the mood for more.

Miss Fisher and Nola kept Una company. She seemed unable to do much more than lay in bed with tears running down her face, as if William's death hadn't actually seemed real until now and the lapse between that fateful night and the eve of his funeral had been just a daze she couldn't remember very well.

Una respected his wishes, but it was difficult to think of him alone in a coffin, even if he had been alone in the morgue's icebox for two days. William was dead and she would never have him back again.

Caroline and Joséphine had come in cautiously, worrying their presence would be distressing and too much of a remainder of Alphonse's actions and the suspicion over Philip's but Una didn't shun them and had squeezed their hands heartily instead.

Nola had turned her apathy into decisiveness and reverted back to doing one of the things she did best: helping people hold themselves together and make sure things ran smoothly. Between making sure Una ate something, drank water, and wasn't either too hot or too cold, adding and removing bedclothes and pillows as needed, she had looked at Joséphine tentatively and Joséphine seemed to have glimpsed at her as she had left the room, but they hadn't talked yet.

«You can go now, if you want», Nola had said past midnight, huddled in a shawl, from the armchair across Phryne's. «Una is asleep now».

«And so should you», whispered Phryne, «tomorrow will be hard».

«I know», Nola said, her tone of voice matching her friend's, «but I can't leave her. I will be alright here. Go sleep in your own bed and don't worry about me». She ran her hand over her hair, left it over her neck, and flexed her shoulders, as if to shrug off any discomfort that might have seized her muscles.

Phryne nodded and got to her feet. She wasn't particularly proud of it but she did yearn to get out of the room and breathe some fresh air.

«Call me if you need something», Phryne said, touching Nola's face.

«Will do», Nola replied, looking up.

Miss Fisher padded her way out of the room, patting Pavlov when she walked past him.

The hallway was silent and so seemed to be the rooms distributed around it.

Yet, she carefully opened Elliott's door to see if he was naturally asleep and not in a drunk stupor. Satisfied with the fact that he appeared to be sober and resting, Phryne returned to her own room.

Mathilde had turned down the bed and the white sheets seemed to be inviting her in, but Phryne had to do something before surrounding to their call.

She drew the curtains aside and opened the window, letting the air in. Phryne closed her eyes and allowed the pleasant breeze to full her lungs. She could discern the flowers and the ocean as she usually did, but there was also a certain earthiness to it she had never noticed before and which seemed to add further warmness to the air.

It was a beautiful night. The moon wasn't as full anymore but still poured its silvery veil over the garden below and the pine-trees in front of Phryne's window. It was clouded by the tragic event that had disrupted what had once promised to be the most pleasant of holidays but it was a beautiful night nevertheless.

Seeing Una reeling from William's death, Nola from heartbreak, Joséphine from her particular confused sort of it, and, to a certain degree, seeing Caroline trying to cope with the conflicting images she had of Philip and the one the world had of him deepened Phryne's sense of missing Jack. Like what had happened the night Wiilliam had died, she couldn't avoid glimpsing what would it be to lose him so definitely and the idea alone was enough to send a jolting shiver through her.

Jack. She had never thought she could ever have such strong feelings for him, certainly not in the first time they had met. They had both been so unsuspecting despite the spark of curiosity that had shone under their ironic remarks. What would he be doing at that time? She took a quick look at the second clock she had bought and put on the desk showing the time in Melbourne. She had set it up for when she felt particularly homesick. It was easier to feel close if she could picture what Jack, Dot, Aunt Prudence, Mr Butler, Hugh, Cec and Bert could be doing in that particular moment. 10.41 in the morning. Jack was probably at the station already, drinking his cup of tea as he read the reports Hugh had put on his desk or, if he had been called to a crime scene, pacing around it, taking in as many details as he could.

In the midst of all the contained but still chaotic aftermath of Alphonse and Philip's arrests, she hadn't yet replied to his telegram with the Pushkin poem. There was no need to retrieve it from the drawer where it was safely kept; just thinking about it was enough to make her smile. Phryne reviewed the poems she knew by heart. Her Roedean masters would have been very disappointed in her since they weren't as many as they had tried to make her memorise. She still recalled certain scattered stanzas or the melody but nothing she could use in this moment.

Phryne put her slippers on and went downstairs. She had never seen the house so dark except for the plain moonlight coming through the windows. The figures on the stair walls appeared menacing and the furniture assumed gigantic proportions in the gloomy rooms. Phryne wasn't easily scared but she found herself holding her breath and only releasing it once she had closed the study door and rested her back against it, the shadows forced to recede upon the flick of a switch.

She straightened her back and walked towards the wall covered by bookshelves. Shakespeare? Rilke? She had nothing against them, quite liked them actually, that fondness enlarged by their particular significance in their connection, but she felt like branching out too.

Her gaze slid over the spines on the shelves, apparently put up without following any discernible pattern of colour, size, genre or theme. It was quite interesting to go over someone's books, especially an acquaintance's. Not yet a friend, no longer a stranger, it was a good way to grasp at who they were. So far she had come across American Classics, French Poetry, Art History, Dance Theory, Architecture, Yachts, Painting, Sculpture, Economics, some Contemporary fiction, American poetry, Contemporary poetry and long established classics hailing from different countries. She had already taken out a volume by William Carlos Williams and another by Angelina Weld Grimké, but continued browsing. She was nearly at the end when a particular book grabbed her attention. _The Mysterious Affair at Styles_ by Agatha Christie. There were about three hundred books on those shelves and she hadn't seen a single representative of detective fiction more except from that copy and while the subject of her occupation had been brought up in conversation nor Una or William had seemed especially cognisant or interested beyond the fact that it was one of their guests' profession and Phryne's ability for telling a story in a compelling fashion.

Phryne had read it some years ago after having heard people discussing it on a train and wanting to find out if it was that enthralling. Her penchant for crime-solving hadn't taken over unexpectedly; before that, she had ready detective fiction avidly, feeling challenged by the thought process needed to figure out clues and discover the identity of the killer. She took it off the shelf. It was an American edition, apparently more used than one could suppose, judging by the slight curl of the pages and its yellowed corners. She flicked through it and turned on the lamp on top of the desk and brought the book closer to the light, flicking through it, stopping at some pages, moving back and forth between them. She recalled her thought about how William's death seemed out of a Christie story the morning after. If she had read such development in a book, she would have dismissed it as too convenient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: I hope you enjoy this chapter, as the story slides into denouement (but isn't there yet. I must ask you to be patient for a little while longer).
> 
> And this closes this week's posting schedule. There will be more next week. Happy Holidays if you celebrate them. Thank you for reading.


	34. Chapter 34

Phryne had caught Rousseau even before he had reached the iron gate that lead to the Gendarmerie.

«I have something of the utmost importance to show you», she had announced after greeting him.

«It seems a bit early, doesn't it?», he said.

«I'll be as bold as to say that you won't find it so after you hear what I have to say once we're behind closed doors».

«Well then», Rousseau said, motioning for her to follow him inside the station.

His office was bigger than Gaillard's and less cluttered. Behind the wooden desk there was a flag stand with France's and the Gendarmerie's and award diplomas decorated the walls. That was the only personal touch. There were no family photographs on the desk or sporting event cups on the shelves, just files.

Rousseau took off his trench coat and hat and left them on the rack by the door and occupied his place on the other side of the desk.

«I'm glad I came to the office with you. Otherwise, I'm not sure I would have recognised you looking so bare», Phryne said lightly.

Rousseau let out a small laugh.

«An officer of the law should look as inconspicuous as possible, wouldn't you agree?»

«Your words remind me of a good friend of mine who wanted to dress in his usual suit and tie for a _bal masqué_. He would be dressed as a policeman, he argued, but eventually I convinced him to dress as Marc Antony instead».

«And did he succeed in blending with the crowd then? I am sure you would have loved having your point proven».

«He didn't even had a chance to put on the costume. Crime got in the way.»

«Does crime get in your way very often?»

«Sometimes, but you know how things are for us. We must always be ready to step ahead and do what needs to be done», she said, with a theatrical shrug, trying to smooth over her realisation of some days ago.

«What did you bring then, Mlle Fisher?», Rousseau asked, putting an end to that banter but calmly enough for Phryne to gather he had been amused by that little interlude.

«It hasn't been published in France yet, but have you at least heard about a book named 'The Mystery at Styles' by a famed British crime writer named Agatha Christie?»

«I can't say I have». Rousseau felt that the work he took home most nights was detective work enough for him. «Why?»

«Let me give you some quick details and tell me if they sounds familiar to you: We have a widow who inherited a life estate and a significant part of her late husband's income. Emily Cavendish marries a younger man, named Alfred Inglethorp. She has two stepsons and one of them is the vested remainderman of the property. Dear Emily Ingletrop dies of strychnine poisoning and after bits of the investigation I'll spare you from it is discovered that Bromide had been added to her evening medicine and she took that lethal cocktail unbeknownst to her».

As Phryne talked, Rousseau's face had been taken by surprise as his brows raised and his eyes widened. Yet, after a small pause he still said:

«That's definitely curious and even bewildering, I must recognise, but haven't you just mentioned how tremendously popular Mme Christie's books are? It wouldn't be that odd for someone in that house to own a copy and we can't know if they may have felt too inspired by it to murder someone.»

«I shall have to disagree, Capitaine», Phryne said, with a certain glee permeating her voice. She always loved to prove Rousseau wrong and their latest amiability still didn't prevent her from enjoying it completely. «Not only were there over three hundred books and this was the only piece of detective fiction on those shelves but there's also the fact that someone tried to erase the pencil underlines and notes written on the margins.»

Phryne took the copy out of her bag, turned it towards Rousseau, flicked through the pages, and handed it to him so he could see it with his own eyes and at his own rhythm.

«Are these the remains of M Van Asten's handwriting?», he said, pointing to the ridges left by a pencil-tip where once one could have read words.

«I think so. I took a 'cast' if I may call it so, with these pieces of paper», she said, showing him the small notebook sheets she had put on top of the written book pages and shaded with a pencil, letting the charcoal reveal the letters underneath those contours.

There had been a line coming from 'strychnine' to the right margin of the book that lead to a list:

_Found in: pesticides, appetite and nerve medicine (easily bought)_

Some pages ahead, another arrow linked 'bromide' to how it could be available: _sleeping medicine, herbicide?_

 _Mix_ , read another note. _Quick reaction_.

Miss Fisher put these pages on the blotter and continued:

«I found some letters from Philip in William Montgomery's desk and I find similarities enough to believe that he's the author of those 'useful field notes'».

Rousseau picked the papers Phryne had given him and attentively looked at them with the magnifying glass he took from a drawer. His conclusions met hers but he still had some doubts.

«Why would he keep the book though? It makes no sense to keep such liability close and M. Van Asten strikes me an intelligent man, despite the poor judgement shown regarding how he handled his money issues and distaste for his stepfather».

«Some perverse kind of pride? He was perhaps hoping to get away with murder but wanted to have some sort of proof of his triumph? Christie's story has its twists but it's that difficult to keep up with if he was trying to mimic what happened in that fiction. And someone did try to erase the lines as well as to hide the tree in the forest, to borrow an idiom, even if they chose the wrong type of tree to conceal in this particular forest». Phryne shrugged again, «I have seen so many odd reactions over the years during my detective work I'm afraid it takes something really outrageous to surprise me at this point».

«This job does stretch the limits of our beliefs», acquiesced Rousseau. «But I am ready to attempt to stretch yours a little bit further as well. Can I be sure of your discretion?»

«Obviously, Capitaine. If we weren't in such good terms, I could have been offended by your remark».

«Neither M. Montgomery nor M Van Asten took the money missing from the trust fund set up by M. Van Asten's mother».

«Who did then?». Phryne was really astonished.

«M. August Armand Bizet de St. George, the lawyer who had set it up for the first Mme Montgomery. It was evenly split but there's a limit in each half from which the other would have to be warned about any change. Dear M. Bizet de St. George was taking from one side and from the other in small sums and under that limit but Philip knew the department director due to his ties with banking and he was made aware of these transactions. I can see why he may have thought M Montgomery was involved though because the lawyer had created the companies to which the money was transferred with names that could suggest associations with M. Montgomery, like W.G.M. - his initials, U&W, Ondine Entreprise, Paper Mills Mont, Una Entreprise, and so forth, which could be considered quite clever. M Van Asten's money difficulties may have become more pressing perhaps and he didn't have the chance to look thoroughly into who was involved in them, but M. Bizet de St. George was undeniably the one, nominating personnel, both from the office and from home and their families as members of these companies. We are still trying to understand if this was done with their acknowledgement in exchange for money and other privileges or without it and through forgery but I'm sure we'll be able to know more now that M. Bizet de St. George is in custody».

Rousseau clearly relished in the reveal and was proud of his work. He even seemed to hold his head a bit higher and his back a bit straighter, which was quite a feat considering how he carried himself at all times.

Phryne was completely startled, surprise rising in her as she listened to the Capitaine exposing his findings.

«So Philip did kill William for something he didn't do?»

«Everything points in that direction, yes», Rousseau said, interlacing his fingers.

«How did you find this?»

«An accountant, Gaillard, and I combed through every bank statement and accountancy leger we found at Chateau Ondine, but we couldn't find any trace that linked the money the Montgomerys have to this famous trust fund. It all seemed to come from M. and Mme's Montgomery's personal fortunes. Searching their house in Paris didn't promise discovering much more so I appealed for a warrant to investigate their accounts in France as well as the part of the fund set in Paris to start with. It was granted and a brigade of specialised accountants and liaison officers were deployed, fine-combing through them over the past two days. I guess the lawyer thought he was being clever enough and had never thought we would be able to get him».

«Congratulations, Capitaine. I am truly impressed», said Phryne earnestly.

«Thank you, Mlle Fisher. Yet, I must thank you for your help as well. We did the backstage work, but you were the one who found M. Pernot's lighter, the letter opener, and now this», he said, pointing towards the book and the 'casts' on his desk.

«We had our troubles and disagreements, but we made a good team», Phryne said with a smile.

«Indeed», Rousseau said, smiling back.

«Does M. Van Asten know about these new details already?», asked Phryne.

«Not yet. The lawyer will be here at 9h30 for the interrogation and that's when I'm going to tell them».

«Poor Caroline. She still doesn't believe Philip did it but maybe this will make her come out her illusion. She will be devastated, but the sooner the better», Phryne said, more to herself than to Rousseau, «Could I watch the interrogation?»

«I can't allow you in the room, but you can stand by the door for a while».

«Thank you».

Soon after, 9h30 came and Phryne followed Rousseau through the same path they had taken the day before.

From the other side of the glass on the interrogation room door, Miss Fisher saw Philip's face and demeanour genuinely crumble for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's the first chapter of this week. I hope you enjoyed it enough to want to read the rest at least. 
> 
> If everything goes according to the plan, there's a new chapter scheduled to be posted tomorrow. Thank you for reading.


	35. Chapter 35

The remaining houseguests were standing by the small grave M. Gendron had opened in the left corner of the garden, overlooking the sea and, some steps behind them, the staff was also paying their last respects to William Montgomery.

Their different relationships with him notwithstanding, everyone was deeply moved and using those moments in silence to bid him their particular goodbyes before the small box containing some of his ashes was covered by earth and the basalt slab where Unahad written his name, years of birth and death and _Thou art most beloved_ with chalk _._ Later, those words would be carved in the stone but for now she couldn't bring herself to just put the slab down as if she was hiding William from view.

Earlier, they had driven to Marseille, the closest crematorium, in order to fulfil William's wishes. After a small ceremony where Una and Elliott had delivered beautiful eulogies and the widow had read Edna St. Vincent Millay's «Dirge Without Music» in an heartfelt but steady tone, his ashes were divided into four different boxes: one containing the ashes to be scattered in the Mediterranean, one to be buried in Chateau Ondine's garden, one to be buried in Paris, and the last to be taken to New York.

At first, Una hadn't been very sure about the burial site in the same place where he had been murdered, but eventually chose not to make any change to what William had left decided. Chateau Ondine had been his dream and he had always considered it his best work and she wouldn't let the people who had killed him take it away from him twice.

It was a beautiful postcard-like sunny day. In that moment, they didn't hear birds and there was no breeze to make the trees billow in the wind so, apart from the gentle whisper of the sea underneath, it seemed that the house and the garden were bidding him goodbye as well.

Una cried quietly into her handkerchief and sometimes she used a dry corner of it to clean the sweat gathering at her temples. It was bit hot for the velvet dress with bouquets of burgundy roses over a black background but it had always been William's favourite and she was glad she had brought it to Juan Les Pins and could wear it now.

That wasn't the first time she was parting with William forever, but the repetition didn't make it any easier. Yet, she didn't fault him for having spread his burial over several occasions. There are many significant places for someone when they live a full and interesting life as his had been, and she couldn't be any more thankful and glad for having been given the chance to share it with him.

«Goodbye, my love», she whispered at last, before crouching to pick up a handful of dirt and gently dropping it over the box she had had made for the occasion in a rush.

Nola and Alva, Una's younger sister, who had been able to finally make her way to France after being caught by the news in the midst of a tour through Southern Italy, helped Una to her feet after and also repeated the gesture but without saying anything further.

Elliott and Phryne followed suit and so did Joséphine, Caroline, M. Duval, Mathilde, Mme Leblanc and M. Gendron.

Caroline trembled as she moved, still in shock after having to come to terms with the fact that Philip had really murdered William but she was doing her best to keep her composure. She had cried violently in Phryne's arms when Rousseau had told her about the latest developments but she had decided that her own state wouldn't prevent her from attending William's funeral. Not only was the least thing she could do, but she had always genuinely liked him. While he was the closest thing to an in-law she had, he had treater her like a friend above all. Una and Caroline had hugged after the gendarmes had left, but she still kept a little bit of distance, too ashamed of what Philip had done and as if she didn't deserve being there.

Perhaps because she had already had the time to process the reality of Alphonse's role om William's death, Joséphine's features revealed she felt morose, but there wasn't any other indication of her distressed state of mind and she wiped the tears that dotted her lower lashes with subtle but precise gestures. She appeared to be Caroline's main support but she didn't keep away from Una for long. For her, it was clear that standing by Alphonse's side didn't mean she condone his hideous act and Una had always been a good friend she cherished.

Elliott might have been sleeping when Phryne had checked on him the previous night, but the sunlight revealed how tired and beaten down he was. He had never had particularly youthful features, not even in the pictures from home Nola had shown her in Roedean or when they had met for the first time, but he looked suddenly very old to Phryne. Old and fragile, which was something hard to conciliate with his tall and imposing figure as well as the mental picture she had of him, even in those few instances where she had seen him deeply inebriated. Pathetic and sad, but never fragile. They had stood side by side for most of the day, and Phryne rubbed his arm encouragingly. Seeing Elliott cry made her want to cry, as if the present circumstances weren't enough to make her emotional, despite her somewhat neutral position in the dynamics of the house.

Miss Fisher was little more than an acquaintance, but had known William long enough to miss him and to help catch his murderers.

Nola cried onto the back of her hand, the other holding Una's arm carefully. She could hardly remember living in Paris without Una and William's presence nearby. They had been drawn to each other as expatriates often do, but there was also someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew the Montgomery's and could vouch for how good it was to know them, how pleasant and smart they were. They were all that in public, but they also turned into great friends, those willing to listen to her blabber about her life and the pressure exerted by her family and how she sometimes felt herself close to giving in to it so she could bridge the gap between her and them and know what it would be to not stand on the outside for once, despite her general high regard for doing what she thought was good for her without having to justify it to others. They were also up to having her over in the rare moments when she felt she needed being taken care of. Nola would miss William's humour and warmth tremendously, but it was time to be there for Una, the gentlest person she had ever met and who didn't deserve to be going through such tragedy.

Nola had been tremendously surprised by Alphonse and Philip's involvement. Yet, she couldn't deny that she had hoped they were the ones responsible when it had become undeniable that the killer was someone closely tied with the house. She knew the other people too well or liked them too much for even wanting to entertain that idea.

Even Pavlov seemed sad, laying quietly on the floor near Una.

When everyone had thrown their bit of earth onto the box, Una knelt down and dragged the rest of the monticule nearby into the grave and smoothed it over with her own hands.

Alva and Nola stood back, letting her do that by herself as she had asked, but then everyone helped lay the basalt slap on top of it.

Each other present people left a flower from that same garden as a tribute and, accompanied by tear-stained faces and the Fletcher Henderson record of 'Clap Hands! Here Comes Charlie' that Elliott set to play, William Montgomery's funeral came to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: This is quite a sad chapter, but I hope that it didn't prevent you from 'liking' it enough.
> 
> Historical note: Cremation was legally allowed in France since 1887, when a law about funeral choices was passed but its 'development' was quite tied with the fact that it was only in 1963 that the Catholic Church started authorising it. Given this, crematoriums were quite rare in France up to the 'timeline' of this story (and still sort of are). As mentioned, the closest one to Juan Les Pins back then was in Marseille.
> 
> Edna St. Vincent Millay's «Dirge Without Music» can easily be found online (and break your heart).
> 
> «Clap Hands! Here Comes Charlie' can be found on you tube (leaving it like this so it doesn't get blocked) easily as well.
> 
> There are only two chapters left of this story and I'm expecting to post both tomorrow. I hope you're still up to reading them after three months of this story. Thank you for reading.


	36. Chapter 36

All the bags were packed and in the hall, ready to be put in the car and people were ready to go, but there was one last thing Phryne wanted to do before leaving. She made her way across the hall and opened the door of the vacant room. Most people seemed to have put the mural away from their minds, deeming it too intrinsically linked with William's death to hold their interest still, but her curiosity had prevailed.

She walked in and turned on the light, despite the traces of twilight that still found their way into the room. To the left of the door there was a ladder by the wall and a table covered with paint cans, brushes, and other utensils Alphonse had needed. Old newspapers were carefully lining the floor, protecting it from dropped spatters and the air still smelled of ink.

Phryne looked to her right. There it was. The mural, apparently finished. She realised in that moment that for all she had heard about it, she had never formed an idea of what it could look like. It was painted in soft colours and depicted an afternoon on the beach: a clump of striped parasols occupied the right of the painting, with people sitting underneath them on chairs or laying on towels, some talking to others around while others seemed to be contemplating the blue ocean ahead or keeping an eye on the people standing on the golden sand.

It was certainly beautiful and displayed Alphonse's talent but someone dying partly because of it had rendered it pointless and the feeling seemed to hit even deeper after having seen it.

Miss Fisher closed the door and went downstairs.

xxx

There weren't many people on the platform as they waited for the _Train Bleu_ _to_ take them to Paris.

Una, Alva, Nola, Elliott, Phryne, Caroline, and Joséphine stood in a loose circle but barely speaking to each other. It was difficult to have much to say when their parting was as far as from being joyful as they had believed would happen back then when their holiday had begun.

Collars were straightened, cuffs pulled down, handbag straps adjusted. Caroline and Joséphine had gone to the station just to escort those about to board. They would stay for a while longer at the Riviera while Alphonse and Philip's trials were set and took place, but would move to other villa they had rented. It made no sense to stay at Chateau Ondine and they would have little privacy if they lived at a Hotel, given the heavy interest by the press.

«I think this is our train», Alva said as the shiny blue composition slid on the track and came to a halt.

Una took a deep breath and looked around the station. It felt as if she was saying goodbye to Antibes and Juan Les Pins and the Riviera. She had first thought of selling the house, but she could never do that now that a part of William rested in that soil. She might keep away from it for a while, just coming down if needed for the trials, but she knew she would return to Chateau Ondine eventually. Perhaps she would turn it into an artists' retreat so it would be as full and lively as they had always wanted it to be. For now, the wages would be paid and the upkeep were granted nevertheless.

«Oui», Elliott said, showing their tickets to the porter and indicating the three luggage trolleys nearby.

«Thank you, Phryne, for finding out who killed William», Una said after approaching her, with Pavlov securely held in her arms. «It doesn't bring him back, but at least I have some answers», she continued, her voice breaking a little in the end.

«I am glad I could help. I just wish there was no need to intervene», replied Miss Fisher, touching Una's forearm understandingly and patting Pavlov's head, «Have a safe trip».

«Thank you».

Una and Alva boarded the train and Phryne moved, wanting to address Nola. She didn't do so right away because Joséphine and Nola were exchanging some brief words and she didn't want to interrupt them. Miss Fisher doubted they would be able to discuss their issues in such a tight window of time but it was definitely a start she was glad to see.

«Take good care of my car… and of you as well, obviously».

Phryne turned to face Elliott, who had meanwhile finished supervising the baggage boarding and saying goodbye to Caroline and was smiling at Miss Fisher now.

«Thank you for that illuminating glimpse of your priorities. I could hardly feel any more flattered», she replied, smiling at him as well. He still looked tired and worn out but it was nice to see him making a joke.

«Don't you trust me? Can you deny how well I treated it over these days?», she continued.

«It's different. You weren't crossing the country as you're about to do», he said, still keeping that humorous tone.

«Thank you for the vote of confidence». Phryne feigned offence and hit him mockingly in the arm.

Elliott swallowed dryly. Phryne kept looking at him. She knew it was only an impression, but it seemed that the green of his eyes had deepened.

«Thank you for everything, not only over the course of these days but over the years as well. Thank you and I'm sorry for being such an idiot sometimes…. also not only now but before».

«You know I agree with that assessment in some occasions, but you are my friend and I gladly help you. I appreciate your apology. You're not a bad person, Elliott. You just get lost».

Elliott lowered his head, uncomfortable with Phryne's kind words he didn't think he deserved.

«I'll see you in Paris in a couple of days and both the motorcar and I will look as pristine and well as we are now», Phryne said, touching his cheek.

«Yes, let's do that», he replied, his tone even deeper as he tried to get himself together. «Have a safe trip, Phryne».

«Leave her be, older brother. I would also like to say something to my friend, if you don't mind», Nola said, walking forward, the heels of her shoes slowly tapping on the cement floor.

«You too», Phryne said, holding his hand for a brief moment before he got on the train. «And now us», she said, focusing on Nola.

«I am sorry I have been so detached. It feels like my head it's upside down», Nola said, putting her fingertips on her temples as if to try holding it in place.

«Who isn't? There's no need to apologise, Nola. I know and I am here for you in any away I can».

Nola didn't reply, but chose to hug Phryne instead. She didn't know what to say. The last few days had left her speechless and too tired to attempt to coming up with words beyond the ones that came to her as she tried to manage her day.

Phryne hugged her back, hoping it would dissipate her friend's distress even if only for a moment.

«Have you talked to Joséphine?», she asked when they took a step back. Phryne knew very well that she had done so, but it felt a bit premature to say 'sort out'.

«I did», Nola replied, with the first smile Phryne had seen bloom in her face for days, «for a second, I mean. We agreed to write to each other to start, to see if we can work something out of this mess».

«It may take some time, but I believe you will. But for now, get some rest, do you hear me?»

«Is this how being on the other side feels like? I am so used to being the mothering one this feels extremely odd», Nola said, «I promise I will try after William's ceremonies are over in Paris», she vowed seriously.

«You can jump into your publishing house in a couple of weeks. This has taken a huge toll on you, Nola», Phryne said, concern and care lacing her tone.

«The best I can do is promise to think about it», her friend replied.

«All Aboard!», yelled the station master.

«Nola!», Elliott called from the open window.

«I'm coming. I better go», she said, hugging Phryne tightly once again.

«Have a safe ride», Phryne said, waving her goodbye.

«You too».

As soon as Nola was on the train, an employee from the railroad company closed the wagon door with a thud and after a whistle and plenty of smoke, the train went away, slowly merging with night until Phryne couldn't see it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: I am sorry for posting this so late, but it wasn't possible to do so earlier.
> 
> Historical Notes: Le Train Bleu operated from 1886 to 2003 and was a luxury French night express train which was called The Calais-Mediterranée Express before the colour of it's well-know dark blue sleeping cars brought that epitet onto it (and it became its formal name after WWII). It had such a particular mystique around it, it inspired a ballet of the same name by Diaghiliev and his Ballets Russes (Jean Cocteau wrote the story, Bronislava Nijinska coreographed it, Henri Laurens designed the stage and there's even a curtain connected to Picasso ), and «The Mystery of The Blue Train» by Agatha Christie in 1928, for instance. The famous Belle Époque restaurant at Gare de Lyon was also given this name in 1963 to honor its historical weight. 
> 
> The last chapter of the story will be posted right away.


	37. Chapter 37

The operator who received the telegram passed it to her colleague on the next desk. It then passed around some more hands, some shelves, and some boxes until it was dispatched in the satchel carried by Mr. Morris, the postman whose route took him to the City South Station at around 8.49am each morning to deliver parcels and envelopes, which were sorted out and assigned to their recipients and that Hugh put right in the middle of Jack's desk so he could see them as soon as he walked into his office to start his day by going through them with that letter opener that looked quite unhewn with its carved wooden handle and rusty spots spattered on the blade but from which Jack would never part because his father had made it and given it to him when he went to the Police Academy. There are parcels and envelopes to sort out and be put right in the middle of his desk to be immediately seen and to be opened with the seemingly unhewn letter opener because he isn't gone and her message has gotten there just in time.

I AM COMING HOME LOVE PHRYNE

The feeling that rushed to his chest made him want to run out of his office and say to Collins and Brown and Murphy «Have you heard? Phryne will be back, Phryne will be back» and then run outside the station and share that piece of news with everyone he came across, but Jack, being Jack, stayed in his chair smiling and wondering how it would be like holding her in his arms again. Last time had been too brief; he was looking forward to remedying that as soon as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it. 37 Chapters and 3 months later Phryne's time at the French Rivera came to an end. I hope you enjoyed it even if it 'dropped' Miss Fisher (and the audience) in a world away from the 1920s Melbourne we've come to love and associate with her. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> This story certainly has its shortcomings, but be assured that I did the best I could and I'm glad I could share it with you. It's definitely one of my favourite things I have written as well as one of those I'm most proud of.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading these 37 chapters and for your lovely, insightful, and interesting background. It was a joy to receive it as well as a chance to learn.
> 
> Thank you once again and may 2017 be everything you hope for.


End file.
